


The spectrum of peace

by searching4neverland



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Dol Amroth, F/M, Princes & Princesses, War, ruling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 12:39:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 59,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2429114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searching4neverland/pseuds/searching4neverland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What does peace feel like to a man that has had a lifetime of war? What does love feel like to those who have denied it all their lives? To those who have never known it? What do two people who simply love and live as best they can, look like?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thirteen months, nineteen days and this morning

__

_**1** _ _. Thirteen months, nineteen days and this morning_

' _Compassion hurts. When you feel connected to everything, you also feel responsible for everything. And you cannot turn away. Your destiny is bound with the destinies of others. You must either learn to carry the Universe or be crushed by it. You must grow strong enough to love the world, yet empty enough to sit down at the same table with its worst horrors.'_

_-_ _Andrew Boyd_ –

When the ships docked, she was the first ready to get down. And why not, after having had idle hours to prepare, unlike the rest of the crewmen. She only took two of her honour guard with her since she wanted to be swift through the city and that meant being inconspicuous. With two armies about, she though – and Captain Galahad agreed – that the risk of trouble was low, but she still remained a princess, as all constantly seemed to feel the need to remind her. For all Lothiriel cared, the whole garrison could come if they wished it, or none at all, if they deemed it better so. There was only the barest flicker of irritation in the back of her head, one she had not much time - or inclination - to peruse beyond the space of an eye-roll: trust men to remember protocol in the most inconvenient (and useless) of circumstances.

The docks of Harlond had never been an orderly place, and were even less so now that almost fifteen ships bearing the Dol Amroth insignia were about to be docked. There were also the remnants of what had once been the fearsome fleet of Umbar docked on the opposite side of the wide Anduin and Lothiriel could not help but stare at the black sails coiling in the wind. They were a memory of something frightening that could no longer harm you… but that did not seize to call forth apprehension, as her shivers instantly confirmed. However, to Lothiriel, the organized chaos of a shipyard was nothing new. She had grown up running round with three brothers in the hustle bustle of the bay of The White Ships which was thrice the size of Harlond. Crowds did not intimidate her either – life as a the daughter of a ruling Prince would have been very hard indeed if she had not forced herself to learn that skill early on. Point of fact, the Princess managed to move herself through the crowd of labouring men quite gracefully, without disturbing the activities around her much, until one of her men brought her horse to her. Malthen was uneasy with the noise of so many men around her. Her southern mound had yet to trust men in armour, but then again Malthen had been trained to protect Lothiriel against them, and not to trust them, something for which Lothiriel had found herself grateful for in the last year.

Lothiriel mounded her golden mare with the swiftness and grace of someone trained by the best, even though the animal was as tall as her brother's stallions - though certainly, much more daintily built. Admittedly, such grace was made all the easier by the fact that she was wearing breeches instead of one of her riding skirts. Those fluttering dresses were both pretty and comfortable enough for riding, but certainly not for moving about in a ship where a tangle in the wrong rope could cast you out in the water, or break a limb before you knew what happened.

"We make for the White City." She ordered as she turned to her guards, in the abrupt manner that she always spoke when her patience started running thin. "Keep up, for I will not slow my gait for you."

Out of the mouth of most women, it would have been a joke, but both her escorting knights knew better than to take her words for anything other the warning they were meant to be: they had seen her ride before, that wild beast of hers galloped like it had wings on its back and the mistress did not hold the animal back in the least.

As the wind slapped against Lothiriel's face bringing with it the stench of the battle and lingering death, her mind went to the last days spent sailing up the Anduin and then to the months prior. Almost thirteen months of gnawing solitude… the waiting, the anxiousness and slow decay into hopelessness as the shadow grew so strong that edges of it came even unto the southern sky of Dol Amroth. She thought of her own fevered attempts to keep the province running the same manner her father had; how she had struggled to keep all the powerful families from gnawing each other's eyes out. So many times she had lost sleep over decisions she did not know how to make, over failures she had perceived as inevitable. So many times she had wished for her father, any of her brothers… but they were gone where their duty called them, and she was left in Dol Amroth to fulfil hers.

Lothiriel and her brothers had grow up knowing that it would be so, once the hammer of the enemy fell. She had not been surprised to be left alone by the sea as her family raged a war north. Perhaps it was the fabled blood of elves in his veins, but somehow her father had always known he would be alive to see this great battle that would either make or break the race of men as he had always known that he and his sons would fight in it. Lothiriel had always thought that it was useless to leave her alone by the sea, when hopes of living through this darkness were so slim… but her father had been a man of hope, above all. Of faith. He had wanted her to keep their people alive for as long as she possibly could. He had told her that from the very day she had been able to understand it. It was his oldest teaching and his most precious gift, and in the end, it turned out to be why many thought – in the right – that Princess Lothiriel, just as her brothers, had had her whole life to prepare for the moment this actually happened.

She had thought so too - but nothing had been as she'd expected. Soon she learned there was a reason why ruling was called a burden: no amount of lessons at her father's table could have prepared her for the immense weight of that responsibility. Her father had borne the enormous pressure with such innate grace, but she, his daughter, struggled under it. There had been moments, in the privacy of her rooms, when Lothiriel felt she almost could not breathe from all the combined pressure of all the worries, all her wishes… it all seemed to want to suffocate her, so heavy they pressed on her mind and heart.

And then there was the ever present void of isolation around her, the feeling of walking on the edge of knife and the tiniest slip would case the downfall into ever darkness. Alone in the cold and without light. No helping hand, no one to turn to… _That_ more than anything was the true nature of power: solitude.

How she had hated it then, how she had wished to escape from it. And how she had scorned herself for such cowardice.

Looking back now, she had found herself so wanting that it was a wonder her father had trusted her his realm at all: such girlish fancies she'd had, about what it meant to be the one that answered to no one else, bound by no convention, because you were the law and could do as you pleased. How nice it had seemed not to ever be told what to wear and what to say, never to be chided for rudeness or propriety. Lothiriel had fancied herself rebellious once, but she knew now that she had been simply immature. She could laugh at her old self now, though there was no humour in her anymore. How young she had been, just months ago: she had thought within power there could be freedom, but had found there was only solitude instead. Deep, bone gnawing loneliness.

But she had been a silly girl then, just thirteen months ago - ( _a lifetime ago, a whole different person ago…_ ). Lothiriel knew better now, and the shadows in her eyes spoke of such knowledge.

The last months of her rule had gone by in this oppressive way, drowned in bleakness and a strange sense of forbidding, awaiting for some nameless evil to strike. And then, just when the routine of those dark days had seemed to want to choke her, the sky had darkened in the north, an eerie green light had pierced the clouds and Lothiriel had dreamt of the White City in flames. And oh, how she had cried that night, because she knew that the war her father had been fearing all his life, was about to take place. The war that would decide the fate of men.

But just when despair seemed to be ready to snap its jaws closed around her, the first rider since months had shown in the steps of their city, with tidings of a great battle in the fields of Pelenor, of the Black ships being overcome and a great victory won with great sacrifice… and that the beloved Prince of Dol Amroth, who had held the White City from the grips of Mordor, had almost met his death doing so. After those very few words, the blood had dried from the rider's lips and he had fallen into such a sleep that no one could wake him from.

There had been some talk among her father's advisors – _her_ advisors really - about the Princess leaving Dol Amroth with provisions to help the White City survive the victory, but most had not objected, and those that had tried to, had been silenced with firm words and a steely glare. Not even Lord Elward tried to oppose her and since the man saw it fit to talk over her every word, _that_ more than anything stood as firm proof that her determination had been keenly felt.

And so, here she was… her heart beating in her throat, riding fast and about to lose one of the men who had been the sole protagonists of her love all of her life. She rode, and ahead of her the fields of Pelenor stretched, strewn with little dots of upturned earth and the sheer amount of so many graves made her shiver. The walls of Minas Tirith, once such a vision, stood smoking and mangled. The evidence of the battle was raw before her eyes and it made her spirit shake with doubt.

How do you keep hoping, in the face of such reckless hate, in spite of so much death? Despair seemed like an old acquaintance coming back, its tendrils reached out to ensnare her and it was only through stubbornness, more like a habit now, that she resisted giving into it. It was reflexive, that surge of strength and gritting teeth: she did not _want_ to give in. She _refused_ to. The defeat of the heart precedes death, that was what her father always said.

So Lothiriel didn't even allow herself to dwell on the echoes of the horrors she was galloping through. If she let herself, she would break. If she even skimmed the surface of that endless pool of grief forming somewhere in a hidden place of her soul, where she stored all the hurts, she would surely never stop screaming. Because it was too much. This world had grown so brutal, so horrid, that the only way to live in it was so harden, to forget how to feel… so she did. She walled herself in, protected herself by stoning in her heart and conscience - and that was the only reason why, even though she was riding through fields of fresh graves, none of what she saw truly touched her. Why she could not feel or cry, of hurt for those that had known such atrocious deaths, protecting the very existence of men. Lothiriel felt ungrateful and undeserving of such a sacrifice, ashamed really, to be there alive, while so many lay dead… but those feelings were but faint echoes of other emotions, emotions much stronger that would have gripped and crushed her, if she but allowed them to.

No, she could not give in an inch, not when standing on a blade so sharp that even the echo of doubt would meant falling. Strength sometimes could make you stone and that was frightening, but the alternative was too terrible to contemplate: she had a father to tend to, brothers to hug. They were her goal, her anchor to what was good and true and real and sane… and as long as she had them to keep her whole, all would be well. She could fight for them, even when all the strength to fight for herself failed. She could do _anything_ for them.

Even endure the impossible with a cold heart.

She _would_ do anything, because she had to. Because they were waiting for her… The day they would not be, and she'd lose her ties to this world, would be the day she would be afraid for herself.

She truly hoped, that day was not so soon to come.

o

o

o

TBC:::


	2. Bound

__

_**2.** _ _Bound_

' _Bound souls. He had always thought the stories of men and women bound throughout all eternity by strength of passion were but pleasant tales for long winter's nights. But he recognized the woman just as surely as she recognized him… and he knew the tales were true.'_

 _-_ _Ann Marston_ _–_

After long efforts, Aragorn had finally managed to get Eomer away from his sister's sick bed and convinced him to come and seek some food together. On the way out of the Houses of Healing they had picked up Faramir, who was strong enough these days to seek some exercise away from the care of the Healers and also Elfhelm, Marshall of the East Mark, and Eothain, Captain of the King's eored. Both men seemed to never leave Eomer's side… and with good reason.

The young King was weary and had suffered much since the battle had been over, but with characteristic stubbornness Eomer refused to seek true rest. He slept too little, did not eat enough, and divided his time between the men injured in the Houses of Healing, his sisters bedside and those encamped in the fields of Pelenor below. The weight of all their losses felt heavier on his shoulders now that he was supposed to be King in his uncle's stead. His mind had not yet grasped what that meant and for the first time in his life, he was unsure of what to do… and the insecurity and responsibility were taking a vehement toll on his peace of mind.

So it came as no surprise to Aragorn that, as usual, blunt force – or imminent threat of it - was necessary to get Eomer to do something he did not particularly felt inclined to do… even when it was something as reasonable as rest.

They had just stepped on the courtyard when the sound of multiple hooves beating the stony road reached them. The men standing at the entrance of the House of Healing made themselves scarce immediately and in good time as well, because not a moment later a rider came into the courtyard at such speed that for a moment Eomer was worried that both horse and rider would run themselves against the wall of the building. The courtyard of the House of Healing was not small by any means, but such speed was reckless and could easily cause the horse harm in a crowded city of stones. And what a shame that would be, for the mare was truly a magnificent creature: tall, a lightly muscled body with strong graceful legs and a coat that had an almost metallic shine, of such a fine golden colour that it reminded Eomer of the gleam of the white wine that Gondorians were so fond of. A beautiful animal that deserved a better rider…

But, instead the disaster he'd anticipated, the rider manoeuvred the mare around and into slowing down. The animal was restless for a few moments, turning around itself and huffing - a gloved hand of the lady it was carrying kept it calm more than the hold on the reins. And it was obvious to Eomer that the rider was a lady, despite the dark breeches and the fact that the fur-lined heavy hood of her cloak was still up concealing most of the face beneath it. She was a woman and Eomer knew it with the innate certainty that a man can recognize a woman's shape, but also because that hand was too small and the arm wrapped in close-fitting sleeves of deep burgundy too dainty to belong to a man.

Another couple of riders came through the doorway of the courtyard and they were obviously her guards. What was unexpected though was the reaction of two City Knights who came running through the doorway just as the lady stepped down from her horse.

"You there! You cannot come into this level mounded on a horse!" One of the guards shouted and came to come at her. Instantly, the knights at both sides of the lady – who Eomer now recognized as Swan knights, sworn to Imrahil – flanked her and reached for their swords - but their charge interrupted the confrontation.

"Stand down."

And her voice resounded deep and surprisingly imperious in the nearly silent square, effectively stopping all motion of those battle hardened men - such had been the severity of her command. That was how it became obvious that this lady was used to giving orders and more importantly, expected to have them followed. And there was something else in her tone: an almost militaristic lack of emotional nuance to her command that made it sound familiar - a captain ordering her men.

She moved past her knights to face the Tower Guards of the White City and lowered her hood so that they may see her face. All Eomer and his companions saw was the back of her head: a thick braid of dark hair and the occasional frizzy curl that had escaped it.

But they heard her well enough.

"I am Lothiriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, Princess of this realm. I have come to see my father."

Her tone was less harsh than before but not much more yielding. She had stated her name and rank, and – in what Eomer imagined she thought was a great show of leniency – also the motive of her visit. She probably thought all discussions ended there.

Princess of the realm indeed, Eomer thought with perhaps a little too much bite.

But within the context of her being Imrahil's daughter, the way she carried herself made more sense, as did the authority she had over those around her, something that she obviously yielded with ease.

But close to Eomer, someone was having a rather different reaction to hearing the lady's introduction.

"Lothiriel?" the steward chanced, sounding as flabbergasted as he looked.

At the mention of her own name, the lady turned. There was a severe expression of her face and it sat well on her features, as if it was practiced, but it did not compliment them. Her skin had a pallid hue that was not altogether healthy, as if the sun had not seen her for quite some time. She seemed weary to the bone and not of the kind that could be soothed by a bath and some sleep. Her eyes were wide and dark, the expression of them hard as stone, a forlorn coldness in all of her features that all those who knew sorrow could recognize. But so easily did that hard mask of severity melt away when her eyes met the shape of Faramir, that it was astounding to those that saw the change. Her eyes widened in shock, and her face fell blank of any expressions. She looked upon the Steward as if she was seeing a ghost.

"Faramir…" The Princess made a few unsteady steps forward and reached for the hand of the Steward, who walked to her as hastily as he could and caught her fingers readily with his good hand. And now that she was close and her face in the sun, her skin seemed translucent, as if stretched too thin over her bones. There was such tenderness in her eyes now, and they were not dark, but of the deepest blue Eomer had ever seen. Nothing was left of the stern expression she wore not a moment before. She looked at the Steward with disbelief and a spark of hope that seemed to light her from the inside out.

And it was only then that Eomer caught the true nature of her beauty. She was exhausted, face drawn, lips pale and dry, shadows like bruises under her eyes… and though marred by these imperfections as much as they would cripple the looks of any face, they gave _her_ features a haunting quality, her beauty something that could not be dimmed by such means. Instead they seemed to add to it, making the looks of her into a strange vision, so young and so marked, and for _that_ she seemed more interesting to Eomer than the most polished beauty he had ever laid eyes on. Later he would ask himself what had made that unknown girl so different; what had it been that set her apart from every other face of sorrow he had seen so far? He had seen the tattoo of grief on so many faces, the same shadow that haunted hearts and took different forms without changing. And yet hers had struck so hard and true within him, as if she had plucked a chord somewhere that he didn't know was there, until it was already singing…

It would take a long time for him to understand why.

The princess brought her other hand to Faramir's cheek in such a tender gesture that it seemed she was almost afraid to touch him.

"My dearest cousin… I thought you dead." She whispered, unshed tears shining in her eyes, making the deep blue of them shine like jewels.

"Almost so, but as you can see, I'm still among the living."

Eomer thought it would have been better that Aragorn, Eomer and his riders had made themselves scarce and leave the cousins to their reunion, but she was a Princess – Imrahil's daughter, none the less - and to simply leave without being introduced, would have been incomparably rude.

"I would hug you, but I'm afraid to hurt you." The Princess finally said with a small watery laugh, eying the steward's still bandaged arm and the other bandages showing under the collar of his shirt. Faramir smiled, and leaned in to kiss her forehead.

"It's quite alright. You may hug me later, when I'm better. But for now, allow me to introduce you to my companions…" He said and turned to Aragorn, Eomer and the Marshalls - but the Princess interrupted him with a _'forgive me, but I cannot linger_ ' that was as firm as it was cautious. She seemed embarrassed then, if one judged by the heating her cheeks into a pale rosy blush – for the first time making her look as if she was more than simply carved out of cold marble. Her eyes were very determined however and there was something in the stubborn set of this Princess' jaw that echoed of Eowyn's own cold fire. It hurt to see her who he loved most of all mirrored in everyone but her own self. She lay behind him, so still and pale…

"I beg your pardon cousin, and to all of you my lords-" And the princess made brief contact with everyone's eyes, holding the eyes of rough men a head taller than herself without the barest hesitation. "- but I must go to my father's side immediately. I have received word that he is most gravely injured, so with your permission I'll be taking my leave, as I must."

And it was obvious that her asking their permission was only perfunctory, because without waiting for a reaction from the men in her presence, she bowed her head curtly (the men were too stunned by her words to bow in return) and turned away from them, making straight for the entrance of the Houses of Healing – and did not go farther than two steps before Faramir stopped her.

"Lothiriel, wait!"

Eomer was glad he did so swiftly, because to let her go under such blatantly misconstruction would have been cruel, seeing how much the lady suffered under it.

"My fair cousin, you are mistaken: your father is not injured at all. On the contrary, he has his full health." And as he spoke, Faramir neared her and took her wrist, because suddenly even that little colour she had drained from her face, paling her lips and cheeks so much that Eomer thought she would faint. But apparently the lady was made of something stronger. She did not faint, but her bottom lip trembled before she could control it, and heavy tears succeeded in falling down her cheeks this time. (and with the cold and hard ask of authority melting off her expression and those tears sliding down her pale cheek, she seemed to Eomer so young and frail that it was hardly believable she had been the same creature to put four knights to a halt with only a few words…)

The Princess turned her head away from them, hiding her tears as if she was ashamed or uncomfortable with their display. But her hand around Faramir's fingers tightened.

"Are you sure? Faramir?"

Wide eyes that seemed to be cut out from the deep blue waters of Belfalas Bay looked at Faramir pleadingly and seeing her so vulnerable, reminded him of the fact that despite the fact that she was as shrewd and strong as she was beautiful, Lothiriel was still but a twenty year old girl with too much responsibility on her shoulders and everything to lose because of it. It made Faramir want to hold her close and comfort her fears away… and thankfully, this time he could do just that.

"I am, I promise. I saw him just this morning - Lord Aragorn was with him not two hours ago."

And this time Faramir turned to find Aragorn's eyes, silently asking the soon to be king to confirm it. Aragorn stepped closer to the pair and looked upon the Princess with such tenderness that she felt her heart ease a little.

"My lady," he started softly - and Eomer envied his friend for his ability to know exactly what to say and how to say it. "I did just meet with you father, as you cousin says. Rest assured, Prince Imrahil is well and anxious to see you again, for as he says, he has missed you greatly."

More tears fell and the Lothiriel breathed deeply through them, trying to calm herself. But she was just so terribly tired, and only now was she starting to feel it weighting on her bones. Perhaps it was because of that, that she was finding it harder to control her emotions. Still, it did not help with not feeling like a weepy, silly girl in front of grown men – warriors, if their stance and gear was anything to go by. So she drew a deep breath and wiped her cheeks as inconspicuously as she could.

"Forgive me, I am overexcited and incredibly tired…"

"There is nothing to forgive." Aragorn said, giving her a soft smile, infinite compassion in his eyes – eyes that seemed to hold such deep knowledge and comfort that Lothiriel could not help but be calmed. She even managed a smile in his direction. And there was also a strange familiarity to Lord Aragorn's person, as if she should know him, but could not quite place him.

"Have you been parted long from your family, my Lady?" Elfhelm asked with a ease of manner that seemed entirely out of place, seeing that he was talking to a Princess… But said Princess smiled at his Marshall amiably enough, if not a little wistful.

"It feels like forever, my Lord."

"How long since you last saw them?" His Marshall insisted gently.

The Princess did not hesitate even half a moment. "Thirteen months, nineteen days and this morning."

Some might have smiled at her answer and thought it prompted by the love she held for her father and brothers, but Eomer knew that counting the empty days meant something else also. It meant endless depths of solitude, as isolating as stone walls, at times as dark as the deepest pits of Mordor. It was an emptiness that gnawed at the inside of your ribs and contorted your thoughts, that made each minute last a day and each day an age - and yet you could never lose track of time, because the count was sometimes the very last thread of sanity you had left. Eomer knew that kind of loneliness and he saw its kin in her – it was there, hidden in the depths of those rare eyes, where something went cold and forlorn as she spoke, even though only for a fleeting moment.

… or perhaps he was weary with too much sorrow and was imagining things.

"I think the long absence is one of the reasons I was so hasty in my decision to come here. I have been beyond myself for three days, fearing I would be too late, and would not only lose my father, but would not even be able to let him look upon my face one last time… I feel quite the silly creature now." The Princess added with a self-derisive smirk, rolling her eyes as if she was dismissing someone else's silly musings.

"On the contrary my lady! If my daughter will be half as devoted to me as you are to you father, I shall be a fortunate man." Elfhelm said and he was actually old enough to be her father, so it was easy even for one who did not know him to know he'd spoken in earnest.

"You are kind to say so my Lord, thank you." The Princess replied, and her smile widened.

Eomer thought it unwise that his Marshall should be so familiar – this was Gondor and it seemed they took propriety and rank in society much more seriously than in the Mark. But again, the Princess only smiled as if she genuinely appreciated the lack of formality - quite like her brothers in that way, and Eomer found himself surprised. It was not unusual for warriors to treat each other as equals, because in the battlefield, all bled the same. But from a Gondorian Princess Eomer had expected… well, he had little idea what he'd expected, perhaps nothing, since he'd never expected to meet one, though Imrahil and his sons might have mentioned having a daughter and a sister. But now that he thought of it, the idea he'd had of a Gondorian Princess was of someone perhaps with a clearer face, not so carved by unhappiness, not so marked by this new and dark world. Someone like the tales he once heard as a boy: pretty and delicate maidens, far removed from the reality of life. Sheltered, was his idea of a Gondorian Princess, with all the good and bad that came with it… though why he'd held such a notion he honestly could not fathom, even though it was his own.

Which was probably why he found the real and true Princess of Gondor before him such a surprising thing. She was pretty to be sure, she could easily be beautiful with a few days of sleep and a good meal, and there was no doubt looking at her face and narrow shoulders that she could be thought of as delicate, if those who watched her wished to think her so. But the proof of the contrary was in her eyes, in her voice… in the way she held the eyes of men without faltering of lowering her own. This princess was no wilting flower. One had to be strong to survive these days, and she had that look in her eyes that some warriors had, those that had seen battle and lived to tell the tale.

When her cousin the Steward asked her why she had though her father was dying, the Princess sighed and her smile faded a little (and Eomer wanted to glare at the Steward, because really, the most immediate thing that this Princess seemed to need was smiles – her whole face seemed to be made for it. Explanations were trivial in the face of that.)

"Unfortunate circumstances I suppose… A few days after the battle of Pelenor, my father's emissary came to the palace. The arrival itself was a great surprise – we've had no messengers come to our shores for months. He'd been wounded by a stray arrow and only managed to tell us that the battle had been won. When I asked him about my father, he said something about the Prince barely escaping with his life and then added un incomprehensible mumble about Rohan." And at this, the Princes nodded her head in respect towards the Rohirrim in her presence, for though they had not yet been introduced, the lineage of the blonde men in front of her was unmistakable.

"And then he fell into a sleep the healers could not seem to awaken him from – the loss of too much blood , they told me. In the day that it took me to prepare for the journey, he did not awaken, nor did any other rider come with news. I was forced to assume to worst."

"I think I understand the reason for the confusion, the situation is easily misleading…" Aragorn started to explain and in doing so he was recounting part of the battle, having the Princes' rapt attention.

Eomer found himself not really paying attention to the words exchanged around him. He had no interest in reliving the battle. Instead, he found looking at the Princess to be much more interesting.

 _Why not_ , he thought. Despite everything, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth was a sight to behold.

She was perhaps as tall as Eowyn, though her cloak hid the rest of her and he imagined that with a little rest and a few smiles, she would be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but as for now … she was the most interesting. Her lips and cheeks were not so pale now and there was the slightest dusting of golden freckles on her nose and even on her cheeks to disrupt the smoothness of it. There was dust in her hair so he could not tell its true shade, but then again, the dark hair of Gondorians seemed always the same to him. Her most extraordinary feature so far were those wide eyes under dark, slanted brows. They seemed to take up most of her face, so expressive they were, and so amazingly blue – bluer than the sky or the deepest river - a colour like nothing Eomer had ever seen before, nothing like the silvery grey of her father and brothers. Her every emotion seemed to flicker through those eyes, making them alive and alight, like blue-flame. They were the centre of her face, gave life to it, even when the rest of her was dimmed.

"…Your father would have indeed fallen in battle, for the wound that is now only a mere scratch to a warrior like him, would have cut him in half if Eomer had not been there to parry the blow."

And so it was that her eyes turned to his and the full force of her stare slammed into him from nowhere… and everything that before had seemed slow, now was twice as fast, as if time was trying to make up for itself. Eomer tried to gather his bearing, and hoped nobody noticed his momentary lapse of it. He held her eyes, and sensed the eco of fear there in their depths. Perhaps talking to her of the battle had not been the wisest decision…

Eomer noticed she cleared her throat gently before speaking. "I was thinking just now that Gondor owns the Riddermark a great debt for coming to us in an hour of such dire need. But it seems, my lord, that my debt to you is far more personal…"

Eomer shook his head imperceptibly, feeling clumsy and unprepared for the way he was suddenly the centre of everyone's interest. He was used to men looking at him with undivided attention, he was used to leading… but few, if any, had looked at him the way this stranger of a princess was now looking at him.

"There is no debt between us, Princess. The Mark answered to an oath made long ago, and I now count your father as a good friend. Indeed, there can be no debt, for we are kin."

He had not meant to sound so grim, but his sternness did not seem to deter the princess, whose eyes smiled at him, lips curving imperceptibly.

"We are kin, you say?"

Eomer said nothing, nor did he have any time to speak, because before he explained to her just how distant their kinship was, she had taken two steps towards him, eyes shining with an undefined emotion and when she started speaking to him again he did not interrupt… nor was he sure he could.

"Since we are of the same blood and my father thinks of you so well, then let me thank you now, as I would a brother." The Princess said softly, looking up at him with such honest emotion that he did not know what to say.

As she spoke, the lady reached a hand in front of herself and the response in Eomer was automatic: he made to take her fingers and press a kiss on them, in the traditional way of greeting, but it seemed he had mistaken her intention entirely. What she did next completely overthrew him, so much so that his mind could not catch up with what was happening until it was well over. In the same way he would have gone about taking her delicate fingers in his hand, she grasped _his_ fingers, and bowing her head, brought the back of them to her lips… pressing the gentlest kiss just over his rough barely brushed his skin and yet the surprise of it made him feel as if a bolt of white lightning had gone up his spine, making him forget how to draw breath. It was plain to see that he was incredulous of his own eyes – a Princess kissing his hand! - even though he had felt the uneven texture of her lips of his skin, feel the warmth of her whisper of a kiss penetrate through his flesh, reaching bone, all the way to his heart.

It lasted less than a blink… and yet it seemed forever till she looked up at him again, lowering his hand without letting go of his fingers. Her hand was warm, and her skin was soft. Such a small grip she had… her fingers so different from the more familiar hilt of his blade. He'd almost forgotten, in the madness of all these last months, what a kind touch felt like, what a response softness inspired. Now that she reminded him, he felt like he'd slept for a thousand years, and hers was the face he awoke to.

He'd felt this way before… but never quite so strongly, or so unexpectedly. Perhaps it was so because he had forgotten. The intensity of is reaction now almost felt unnatural because of how much he had forgotten… because of how long he had that things such as these did not truly happen. He had lived too hard and surrounded by too much darkness to believe otherwise.

And yet here he was. And it happened.

The rush in his ears was loud enough to deafen him to the world entire, but her clear voice made it through unhindered, as if he was hearing it from inside his head.

"You have my gratitude for saving my father's life my lord, and you will always find a friend in me, should you ever need one." The princes said as she looked directly in his eyes without blinking. There was nothing grand about the words, because so raw were her feelings and the voice with which she uttered them, that he could practically _sense_ them: her gratitude and relief were pure and undiluted by anything else.

He would have liked to say something, but somehow all words were simply blanked out form his mind. The only thing he could make sense of, were her face so close, those eyes so blue, the feel of her lips still burning against the back of his fingers like a fire brand. He felt as if he had fire in his veins and to anyone who knew him (ah, Eothain and Elfhelm would never let him hear the end of it!) the sight of Eomer struck speechless would have been a rare one for sure, since it was known in the Mark that it would take something dire indeed to cut the words and wit from the his tongue. But the Princess did not take offence at his silence - on the contrary, she gave him a smile so sweet it could have come from a child, as if she was ready to excuse not only his reticence but a great deal more.

She let go of his hand then and stepped back, turning to Faramir.

"Cousin, I think you have been in the wild for far too long." She said abruptly, and though she was keeping a blank face, her eyes were alive with merriment, and her expression turned to mischievous when one corner of her lips lifted up in an asymmetrical smile that was almost a smirk."Why, after offering once and my declining, you have completely neglected to introduce your companions to me. I only know Lord Aragorn's name, and only thanks to him, Lord Eomer's."

Her deliberately easy manner was meant to clear out any tension or awkwardness at her so forward display, and in a way it did, though Eomer could not relax completely. Faramir on the other hand, was as ready to play her game as he'd ever been . He straightened as much as he could and faked a perfectly formal tone that was completely at odds with the look on his face.

"My Lady Princess, I do beg your pardon. May I introduce you to the company now?"

"You may." She said in a way of speech that Eomer would have expected from a Princess: devoid of any feeling and still managing to convey a certain irritating superiority, especially since her face was now blank as a sheet… but it was hard to take her seriously when her eyes danced with silent laughter.

This play-pretend seemed to be an old game between the cousins and it was not difficult to catch on to the obvious mockery it made of the rigid Gondorian rules of propriety. Eomer looked over at Aragorn and realized that the soon-to-be King was enjoying himself, not even trying to hide his smile.

"Princess Lothiriel, I present to you our company from Rohan: Elfhelm son of Elfung, Marshall of the East Mark; and Captain Eothain son of Eothed, first rider of the Kings eored."

Both men bowed to her and murmured ' _my lady'_ and the Princess favoured them with a graceful curtsy in the fashion of Gondor.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance my Lords."

"Also..."

"A moment cousin. Before you make the same mistake twice." Lothiriel interrupted. "I believe Rohan is called the Riddermark by its own folk, is it not?" Lothiriel asked, turning her face towards the Rohirrim, who nodded at her, and appreciated her knowledge. Lothiriel turned a triumphant smile towards Faramir.

"But we are not of Rohan, Lothi, so it is our prerogative to make such mistakes."

But Lothiriel would have none of it, and with a miniscule toss of her head she disposed of her cousins words.

"There cannot be a prerogative for mistakes. I'm sure ignorance of those who saved our lives is not going to be appreciated."

Eomer would have liked to add in that it did not matter and that little knowledge was of little consequence. That the Rohirrim were a people of action not of word and that if they felt they were being respected, they would not mind a slight of vocabulary. But this game between the cousins seemed too familiar to intrude upon.

"And pray tell, how did you come by such knowledge, my sweet cousin?"

The question was meant to sound as condescending as it did, but the Princess seemed to pay it no mind.

"You're not the only scholar in the family, Steward-son."

Faramir made a noise that was very much like a snort. "Obviously."

The Princess narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you trying to mock me, Faramir?"

"I most certainly am not. The last time I dared, you threw me off the ship and into the icy waters of the Anduin."

The men laughed and Lothiriel raised her chin defiantly at her cousin.

"And you better remember it. I'll do worse this time, my imagination on exemplary punishments has expanded, and so has my experience."

Faramir gave the good impression of a shudder and to the surprise of all present, the Princess punched him on the arm.

"My dear lady… I would have you do that again in front of your aunt." Faramir said as something that was very much like true mischief danced in is eyes. The princess raised one eloquent brow, giving him a thawing look.

"And have her raving at me for a good three hours about how a Princess never lifts her hand if it's not to daintily pick up her fork? I should see how well she survived a childhood with three elder brothers before giving me that lesson." The princess said causally and Eomer almost chuckled at that, remembering how, a long time ago, when they were still children, he and Eowyn – with a unspoken help from their cousin - had trapped their decorum tutor in the barracks for a whole day. Their aunt had been furious… only bread and water for a whole week for them. But of course, by then Eowyn had known all the hideouts of Meduseld, and Eomer had found a few new ones. They had had no trouble sneaking about…

"Besides, I punched your good arm. You must admit, it could have been worse." The princess added after a moment of consideration.

"You would not be that cruel." Faramir pointed out with narrowed eyes and the Princess smiled in a way that was almost too innocent, as she linked her arms about one of his, resting her chin on his shoulder like a girl half her age would.

"Of course not." She said, overly innocent eyes looking at him with the outmost faked sincerity, and her expression made the men laugh and Faramir roll his eyes.

The Stewart was about to say something, likely to tease her again, but then the booming voice of Imrahil filled the courtyard and it made the Princess jump. The Prince of Dol Amroth was so excited that he was talking in a rush and not really even looking up as he went thought some pieces of parchment in his hands… which was why he first missed the obvious – and also perhaps because the figure of the Steward partially concealed The Princess from sight.

"Aragorn, Eomer, I have the most wonderful news. Oh, Faramir, I see you're here as well – which is good, this concerns us all. My daughter has send provisions from Dol Amroth! Fifteen ships have just made port in Harlond. I have yet to go over all the lists, but I know Lothiriel would be thorough – she never does anything half way. How in the name of all the gods did she arrange everything so quickly I have no idea, but then again I should know better than to ask how my daughter does anything…"

The Princess was transfixed, watching her father as he went on speaking without even glancing up from the inventory of supplies she had compiled herself. It was so strange to see him again after being apart for such a long time… after having nightmares for three wholes days about finding him dead. Each day had lasted an era… and now she was here.

He did not seem changed, except for the fact that he looked as if he had not eaten a good meal and slept a full night in months.

"Ada…"

Her voice was barely above a whisper but it froze her father's speech and movements as if she had struck him. He looked up and the grey eyes of her line found hers. Lothiriel saw shock there, so strong that her father had to blink a few times in the way he sometimes did when he needed to reassure himself that he was truly seeing right. Then the surprised waned into disapproval, the telltale frown appearing on his brow, lips pulled tightly together as it was his way when anger took him. On any other occasion Lothiriel would have hesitated at being met with such an expression, but now even the sight of his anger was comforting, for he was _there_ and so was she, after such a long time of being apart. Her smile widened and finally, her father's face calmed into resigned acceptance and he sighed, smiled a wistful smile and shook his head a little, as if admitting defeat.

Lothiriel needed no more signs than that. She ran across the courtyard and into his arms, with a thoughtlessness that she'd have plenty of time to regret later… but not just now. Her father picked her up, almost lifted her from the ground as he pulled her close and as he led his daughter after missing her for a year, Imrahil felt whole again.

After some moments, he held her at arm's length for inspection, grey eyes like a stormy sky taking her in from head to toe.

"You have not been sleeping." Was his conclusion and his disapproval made itself known again.

But Lothiriel was not to be cowered so easily.

"No, I have not. And neither have you." she shot back and her father laughed – the sound was more akin to a relieved sigh than a merry laughter. Finding her here, knowing she had faced such a dangerous journey in sailing from Dol Amroth to the White City made him angry at her carelessness, but finally having the chance to hold his daughter in his arms after an eternity of being parted from her… the joy of having her there overrode all other feelings.

Imrahil sighed, both weary and infinitely happy.

"Ah, daughter mine…" And he smoothed both hands over her wild curls, then taking her face between those rough palms she knew so well. "… you will never seized to amaze me. I wake up in the morning expecting to have you safe in Dol Amroth, and here I come to find you entertaining Kings."

At Imrahil's words Eomer felt Faramir wince and he could almost sense the way the Princess stiffened.

"Beg your pardon?" she quipped, confused.

Indeed, Eomer though with a smirk, it seemed she had no idea what her father was talking about. He would have liked to see the look upon her face just then. Imrahil only laughed, took his daughter's hand and turned her so that she was facing the very men that she'd been speaking to not five moments prior.

"Daughter, I am honoured to present you to Eomer son of Eomund, sister-son of the late Théoden, King of the Mark and his successor." He said buoyantly. Lothiriel followed his eyes and they landed on Lord Eomer, who could not quite hide his amusement at her flabbergasted expression. He bowed his head and expected her to curtsy, but her eyes were still wide with surprise, cheeks stained with the deep pink of embarrassment.

Her father did not leave her time to recover, for he had decided that he liked to discompose his daughter in such a fashion.

"And on his left, stands the heir of Elendil and heir to the throne of Gondor, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, soon to be known as Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnon."

The Princess' eyes widened even more and she took in a sharp breath that she did not release for several moments. She looked at Aragorn with none of the scepticism of most nobles they had encountered so far – instead there was pure awe on her face as she looked at him without blinking or breathing. It was strange enough that now Rohan had a new king whose name she had never heard of, but for the King of Gondor to have returned after almost a thousand years…

Then, remembering herself, Lothiriel gathered her wits and curtsied low in front of the two kings, and so bowed and with her head lowered before them, her hand still holding on her father's arm, she looked the picture of perfect courtly behaviour. When she rose, her expression was of that distant politeness that had been seen before on many a face greeting them the way she had just now. However, there was a much more direct feeling in her eyes that lit them up.

"I beg your pardon for being too informal with you, your Highness, my King." She said as she looked first at Eomer than at Aragorn, her tone as grave as her eyes. "I did not know who you were and my cousin thought better than to let me know… so really, I suggest we flay him for bad manners."

The laughter burst all around her, because her so sudden (and ferocious) suggestion had been made with the complete seriousness and unfailingly sedate tone that good behaviour dictated - and for that reason, because her complacent speech contrasted so much with the rebellious nature of her words, it made into a particularly good joke apparently. Too bad that Faramir winced, since he (and her father also) were the only ones that would take Lothiriel's threats seriously, seeing that they were the only ones that knew her vindictive streak well enough to have the wisdom to do so.

"Are you going to put snakes in my bed again, Lothi?" Faramir asked and that made the men laugh, but Lothiriel glared at him. The cheek of the man, to say such things I front of Kings! She felt her face heat up and for a moment did not know what to say, but then she noticed the amused smiles of the faces around her… It seems that both the King of the Riddermark and that of Gondor (such a strangeness, to think of a the King returning…) liked the idea of a somewhat wilful Princess beneath the strict facade of court.

So, with matter standing that way, by way of response Lothiriel rolled her eyes.

"Will you ever stop complaining about that? It was years ago, and the snakes were not even poisonous." She said in a tone that suggested she was utterly bored with the whole affair and his reaction to it, and it made the men laugh even harder.

Lothiriel sound herself surprised at the simplicity of this, of two kings and the high Princes of the realm together, enjoying play and laughter as simple men would. But both the new kings were much less severe than she had thought a king to be, and their relaxed manners and preference for sincerity seemed to put them a far cry from Denethor's severity, for example.

The royal court of Gondor was going to have quite a shock with this new king, Lothiriel thought amused.

"What draws such a smile on your face, my lady?" Lord Aragorn – no, King Elessar - asked with a smile which Lothiriel found impossible not to return.

"I was merely thinking of how changed the Royal court will be once you take the throne my lord, and I was indeed glad for it."

King Elessar's smile became wistful and Lothiriel knew instinctively that he had understood her meaning.

"You were not happy with the way court was held before, my Lady Princess?"

Lothiriel looked over at Marshall Elfhelm and smiled. The man had obviously never been to Gondor before.

"You want my honest opinion, my Lord Marshall?" She asked with a small smile. Her father snorted softly, but did not make a move to stop her answering – he had hated Denethor possibly more than he'd ever hated anyone and Lothiriel knew it, but her father was too well bred to show it, and too smart a politician to let anyone else understand it.

"I would ask for nothing less, my Lady." Elfhelm replied, as if the answer was obvious.

Faramir on the other hand groaned softly.

"Given time, you will learn to dread my cousin's honest opinions my friend."

"I'm sure it's the only one I'd like to hear." The Marshall insisted and Lothiriel smiled at such persistence. She was starting to appreciate the open manner these Rohirrim riders seemed to possess.

"Very well then, my Lord. But I will have to temper my words none the less, since I am in presence of two kings, so I will simply say that if I never set foot in Steward Denethor's court again, it will be too soon… and I'm sure Steward himself will agree with me."

The men around her smiled, though none but her father and Faramir knew the extent of the distain that the Princess had for the fallen Steward of Gondor, and how it was reciprocated – which was the reason why she could afford to be so free with her opinion on this matter. Still, there was something in the air, the moment she finished speaking, that was a little disconcerting. Lothiriel could not put her finger on it, but instinctively knew she had said something wrong. She looked at her father, confused, but Imrahil had only a smile for her.

"Come daughter, we have much to speak of. You must tell me all of home, and I shall need your help on the distribution of the previsions you so cleverly brought us. But first you must eat and rest properly." He said gently.

"I should like to see my brothers too, ada." She reminded him gently and Imrahil gave an ' _of course, of course'_ almost absentmindedly.

"My Lords, will you not join us for dinner. I would be honoured to have you in my house." He then added, turning to all present. The general grumbling was taken as an acceptance and they all started to make way for the Dol Amroth residence that was not far from the Houses of Healing.

As they walked and their conversation mingled, Lothiriel turned to Faramir almost absentmindedly.

"Oh, cousin… Don't think I have forgotten you. As soon as you're better, I'm going to find a way to pay my thanks. What say you?"

Faramir put a hand over his eyes and groaned softly, half in jest to amuse his cousin, and half in truth - knowing that Lothiriel would not really harm him, but also knowing with deep certainty that she would find a viciously imaginative way to get back at him for her embarrassment.

The Princess' laughter followed and rang in Eomer's ears like a chiming bell, echoing inside his head for the whole way to her home and making it difficult to concentrate on much of the conversation around him.

o

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TBC:::


	3. Brothers and sisters

 

 _**3** _ _– Brothers and sisters_

_In every dispute between siblings, both cannot be right, but they may be, and usually are, both wrong. It is this situation which gives family life its peculiar hysterical charm._

_\- (adapted from)_ Isaac Rosenfeld –

The Dol Amroth residence was warm, as the fire in the main hearth was roaring, but its appearance too suggested the softness of comfort, one that lacked that cold feel the white stones of Minas Tirith elicited in those that were used to green and earth and wood. None of the grey and dark blue here… The white walls of the house were decorated with only colourful tapestries, the floor around the fireplace strewn with furs, wide sofas covered with brightly ornamented blankets and cushions, bright blue drapes with golden decorations hung over the wide windows and instead of the stone statues that the Gondorians seemed to favour so, there were glass vases with colourful flowers decorating the corners. The splashes of vivid colours and brightly light spaces gave the house an air of warmth that chased away the overbearing sight that great rooms and precious decorations might have made otherwise.

Eomer had though he was only invited for a meal, but as it turned out, he, Eothain and Elfhelm were given their own rooms, allowed to remove their armour, bathe if they wished (and that was what he did in the end), a set of spare clothes that fit him as if they had been made for him, and even a bed if he wished to lie in it. Eomer eyed it suspiciously, as if the bed was the enemy and seriously contemplated for a few moments removing himself from this fine house entirely. His inner compass was firmly pointed north, towards the houses of healing, to the Pelenor fields below, and there was a deep pull inside him that told him here was not his place and he was neglecting his duty.

Eomer sighted. Had it been anyone else, he would not have cared about offending: he would have left. But this was Imrahil, a man to whom Eomer owed a great debt. Saving the life of the one who Eomer loved most in this world was no small thing. So, it was with an unsettled heart that the young king descended the stairs of his room. A servant, a lithe boy that seemed no more than fifteen, escorted him into a wide and finely ornate dining room that faced south.

"Eomer, come join us." Aragorn pointed at the seat to his right and Eomer took it wordlessly, asking himself why could he not just settle down, I only for a few hours.

"Imrahil begs us to start our meal without him, since his daughter has convinced him to rest a while. The Princess will be joining us shortly." Aragorn explained, and when Eomer made no response, the ranger examined his face more carefully. "My friend, you seem ill at ease…"

Aragorn's observation brought him to the present and Eomer snapped his attention to his fried. "I was thinking… we should gather into council. The forces of Mordor may have been broken here, but our enemy is not going to give out because he lost the battle for the White City."

Eomer saw Aragorn's eyes darken and the ranger nodded his head pensively, eyes far away as he saw that which Eomer could not.

"There is much to discuss, yes. But we must wait for Gandalf to be back from his meditation. He needs time to see things that are past the vision of any man or elf. Tonight, we hold council, with Imrahil and the fellowship."

Eomer felt that there was something more to this than his friend was saying and glancing from the grey eyes of Aragorn's to those (so similar) of Faramir, he felt himself left out of the dark knowledge that swam within the eyes of both the men of Gondor. But before Eomer had not the chance to ask more, because as his Marshall and Captain came through the doors of the dining Hall, there was a commotion behind them and the three men at the table frowned, warrior instincts making them tense without even their noticing. There was muttering and multiple cursing, slamming of doors and the unmistakable sound of mail and armour.

"Where is she? _Where_? I'm going to kill her myself!"

The voice of Imrahil's eldest son was unmistakable, even when mixed with the muttering and stutters of the servants that hustled about him, and he did not sound as if he was in jest. Eomer had a feeling he knew who the Prince spoke of, and felt the frown settle on his features. After Faramir excused himself and closed the door behind himself, Eomer turned questioning eyes at Aragorn, who seemed pensive, his gaze turned inwards.

As he caught Eomer's questioning stare, Aragorn explained.

"Elphir has always been very controlling of everything around him, a need born of his desire to do right by his heritage, I suspect. But I am willing to wager whatever I have that nothing stirs his nerves more than his sister, since she has long been the very person he most wished to keep safe, and at the same time, the only one he cannot order about." A small amused smile made its way on Aragorn's lips. "It has always made for an interesting mix when the two are together, ever since Lothiriel was a child."

Eomer found himself surprised, though he knew he should not be, because he knew of the long years of Aragorn's life.

"You knew her when she was a child?"

"I met her once, when she was perhaps ten years of age. I was on a mission for the Steward and my way brought me to the shores of the Bay of White Ships. I had never see her before, but recognized her instantly – unlike her brothers, she has her mother's eyes." A small smile came over Aragorn's lisp as he remembered. "Even her brothers were weary of me, but she had the fearlessness only a child can possess. The first thing she asked me was if it was true that rangers of the north could crush a man's skull with one hand."

Eomer turned an amused expression to his friend. "And what did you say?"

"I told her yes, and instructed her to tell her brothers that if they ever frightened her again, this ranger from the north would come to hunt them down." Aragorn smiled warmly at the memory. "She laughed."

Eomer found himself itching to smile also, imagining this foreign child that his friend spoke of. She must have been lively, and smiling and wild. He found it difficult to believe that those eyes had always had that forlorn note in their blue depths. It sounded truer to think that the inaccessible quality about her had appeared as she grew to live in a world torn apart by war and evil. In his mind, the princess had been a child that liked to laugh and play and run, happier with her brothers and horses than she was in the company of court… and then he realized that he thought of Lothiriel and pictured Eowyn in her stead, and his heart ached for it. The thought of his sister was starting to haunt his every thought and would not leave him be. Nor should it be different, but he wished so badly for a moment of peace.

In lack of that, he chose distraction, and turned to Aragorn, meaning to ask the ranger more of the Princess, her brother, their family, _anything_ that would take his mind off all else that needed to be thought about - but a commotion on the other side of the door made them pause conversation. One of the servants that had been going about setting the table had forgotten the door open and now the raised voices from somewhere in the house could reach them. They were faint, since they seemed to be far and probably locked in another room, but the ears of the men around the dinner table were those of warriors used to picking apart the faintest brushes of sound, so naturally, they still heard the words exchanged.

"… not only reckless but utterly irresponsible as well. I cannot _believe_ you had the nerve to leave the coastline unprotected. Five warships? _Five_? Did you even think of the consequences of your actions?"

"For the last time, _lower your voice_. Our father has hardly slept for days and I will not have him awakened by your tantrum."

Princess Lothiriel sounded positively calm in comparison to the irritated tones of her brother that verged on shouting. But her voice had a cutting quality to it, like cold steel: sharp and precise, where Elphir's anger was without a true direction and moved him forward more than logic.

"My _tantrum_?" Elphir's voice was a low growl and for a moment Eomer frowned, honestly worried. "Have a care, sister, my patience has limits."

"And I have seen the limits of your patience." She snapped back like a whiplash. "I do not wish to continue this conversation. I have already explained myself yet you refuse to see reason – that sounds like a problem between you and your favourite god, so I beg you to leave me alone."

"Elphir…" The Steward tried patiently, but patience had passed Elphir by before he even came face to face with his sister.

"Faramir, I beg you to stay out of this!"

Faramir's sigh was heavy but he said no more, and when Elphir spoke again, his temper sounded painfully controlled, the words strained as if he was grinding his teeth against them.

"Lothiriel, if you knew anything of strategy and sailing you'd know that the southern waters could not spare a single warship to sail north, let alone five – no matter how many of the Black Sails have been captured by Gondor. It only takes a few corsairs ships to set fire to the whole harbour and without any defences…"

"I may not be a captain of a ship, brother, but I consulted with ten of them, and they all gave me leave. I send for _Bane_ and _Osiris_ before I left, they were mere hours away, along with four other warships that would reach the city within the day!" And now the coolness of the Princess' voice slipped a little. She had obviously said all this before and did not appreciate having to repeat it. "Our spies told us that there was no corsairs in sight within a hundred leagues of Dol Amroth – indeed the closest pirate ship was anchored in Umbar – and they did not move from there, a constant threat but never engaging. We had caught the movements of the rest of the Black Fleet weeks ago, we knew they were all heading north."

There was a beat of heavy silence.

"You knew?" And this time it was Echirion's voice that interrupted the two siblings. He sounded more at his ease than his brother, but there was a definite hard edge to his voice. Echirion did not voice the question that Eomer had in his mind (and that he saw reflected in the eyes of his table companions) but the eldest brother did not have the patience of the second born.

"And _why_ did you not sent word? We were taken by surprise and had it not been for Lord Aragorn, we would have perished in this fight. You could have avoided that and yet you did _nothing_! _Why_?"

And his accusation rang in the air, harsh and unforgiving, like a whip at the Princess's flesh and at the mere thought of it Eomer felt his hand twitch for his sword and he knew that had he been there in that room with the siblings, he would have taken a good swing at the Prince's fine jaw and made him spit some of those white teeth out. The facts of what Elphir said were true: the Princess should have found a way to warn Minas Tirith – but it certainly could have been said in a different manner! Whatever her slight, Eomer could not believe her to be negligent with the lives of her own people. Surely she did not deserve such callousness.

But Eomer was wrong to doubt the Lady's strength. She did not need his intervention, nor anyone else's'. This was not the first time she dealt with her brother.

"I did send word."

Her words rang flat and lifeless in the startling silence that had followed her brother's accusation. Her calm had a false ring to it, as if she was boiling just an inch under the surface but would not give her brother the satisfaction of seeing her erupt.

"I send word when the random bands of southerners started raiding villages and burning forests to smoke the rangers out. I send word when they took Delft, killed all the men, raped the women, cut the babies from their mother's wombs and threw the children from the cliffs. I send word when I had to close the borders of south Gondor and dislocate all the villages inside the walls of the cities to keep the people safe. I did send word, brother… where were you?"

It seemed that everyone in the house had stopped breathing. Even the servants had stopped moving about and the silence had something eerie about it. It was dark and heavy, the horror that her cold words described permeating the house like a stench. Eomer met Aragorn's eyes and there he saw the same feeling of shock that he was feeling himself. _Why_ had they not known? Why had her messengers not reached Gondor? Had they been so cut off from one another that right under the nose of the White City, south of Gondor had suffered and they had had not means to know of it?

"It makes sense that they would keep us from communicating with each other, if the attack from the docks of Harlond was meant to be a surprise. I would not be amazed if Mordor had put a great deal of effort in keeping the messengers between Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith to none." Echirion reasoned in his usual matter-of-fact was, but none of the other siblings said a thing.

Eomer thought that perhaps he would hear an apology from Imrahil's first son, but apparently, Elphir was unrelenting not only in battle, but also when it was so achingly obvious that he had overstepped his right.

"You could have found a way." He said and though there was none of the anger from before, this blind insistence at getting his own end seemed to anger the Princess more than his harsh words.

"I tried!" She snapped, her voice ringing with resentment and shaking a little, as if she was a breath away from tears… or from slapping her brother silly. "And when I became clear that not anything I could do would work, I stopped sacrificing my men for _nothing_!" And this was the only time during all their quarrel that she had come so close to raising her voice.

Silence stretched until finally someone sighed heavily.

"Who did you leave in charge of the defences?" Echirion asked, his voice toneless, which was good, because this quarrel could not take any more participants. If Eomer had thought he and Eowyn exchanging blows were harsh, well, now he knew that perhaps they were not alone in that. Perhaps brothers and sisters everywhere exchanged such harsh words and the better they knew each other the more able they were to hurt each other…

"I left Captain Felared as my regent. He is in command of the navy in my stead."

"Felared? Why?"

And Eomer could almost hear the frown in Elphir's voice. For the first time the Princess hesitated a moment before answering.

"I had to leave someone in charge who would he a capable military leader should the city need one. The Captain is under instruction to take special council from Oreus and Creol both, because I trust them to act as father would and they have proven invaluable to me these past few months."

"Why do I have the feeling you're dancing around a very important issue here? What are you not telling?" The suspicion in Echirion's voice was of the gentle kind, as if he was trying to get his sister to speak without really demanding she do so.

The hesitation in the princess' silence was palpable.

"I requested Lord Deonvan services in defence of the coast for as long as it was needed. All of his 90 warships. I have done so almost six months ago, when the Black Sails started to move closer to the coast and we detected activity north. Since his ships are almost half of the armada, he would be the de facto leader, but he still has to bow to my will and orders, and with me gone, I wanted no misunderstandings: he is still just a captain. Felared is able to do that for me."

The princess spoke those words in a peculiarly official way, as if she was reporting to her general, not her brother. Soon it became clear why.

"Lothiriel…" Echirion began, and there was a strange dark note to his voice that had been missing before. But Elphir spoke before his younger brother could finish.

"Deonvan! _Deonvan_ is in charge of the defence of Dol Amroth? You would trust that bastard son of a whore with the lives of your people? Have you _completely_ taken leave of your senses?"

Eomer almost choked on his wine. He had thought before that the Princess seemed someone that was weathered well beyond her years for managing to school such severity on her young face… and now he knew where that experience came from. It was no wonder that the Princess seemed to have such thick skin. With her brothers speaking to her like that, as if she was a man and not a girl, she would have had to grow strong to survive.

"I would not trust Deonvan with a jar of sand, but I needed his ships, so I called him to his oaths. _That_ is all there is to it." Lothiriel said and Eomer had again the impression that if her words were blades, they would cut through flesh and bone.

"Things are never that simple with any of the house Targil and you know it. Deonvan is not a man to be called upon oaths, he will expect something in return. Indeed, he will think you are indebted to him for his efforts and that a five year betrothal is long enough." Echirion stated flatly, and Eomer had felt corpses that were warmer than his voice just then. But Eomer was more concerned in that moment with the reaction within himself.

She was betrothed… she belonged to someone, a man that did not deserve her in the least, if her brothers' reaction to his name was enough to go by. But still, she was another's… and the weight of realization came to him like a blow behind the head, in a way he did not expect of even comprehend. But he felt the cold bite of his cup when his fingers tightened too much around it, saw the way his knuckles turned white, and willed his hand to release the blasted thing. _Why should it matter?_ She was just a pretty girl he did not know, and he had known many before her that were even was just a face without a name… or that was what he tried to tell himself, the rationality of it, the truth. But even just then, it felt a weighty lie. Eomer was too honest a man to deceive himself. Why bother? He knew why it mattered. He knew it, because he felt it. It had mattered from the very first time he saw her.

Strange how one seemed to decide on his joys and sorrows before one even experienced them…

"He may think what he likes, but I swear to all the gods that if that little shit even so much as _looks_ at you improperly, I'll have his balls on a spike."

"Elphir please!" Faramir snapped, this time with impatient and clear annoyance and Elphir muttered something that was incomprehensible (Eomer dearly hoped it was an apology to his sister for his foul language. The heir of Dol Amroth had spent too much time among soldiers.) There were a few moments of silence before Echirion finally had the courage to break it.

"Lothi, has he… Has he made any sort of uncalled for advances as we were away?" Echirion finally got out and the silence that came with his words was a particular kind, a kind charged with death threats and promise of slow violence. Eomer fancied he knew the feeling. He would tear apart with his bare hands the man that dared even _think_ of Eowyn that way… but then again, his sister would possibly take a blade to such a man first.

 _But not always_ … his mind whispered traitorously, and he thought of Wormtongue. His whole countenance darkened.

"You mean has he pressured me with everything he could think of to marry him? Yes he has, but that is nothing new."

"I meant…"

"I know what you meant. And had what you meant come to pass, I would have done exactly as Elphir suggested- " And there was such a vein of controlled fierceness in her voice that Eomer believed her… and felt a smile twisting his face, more of a grimace really, but it lightened his mood anyway.

"- and then holed him in the dungeons, confiscated his wealth and lands and put half of his despicable family to the blade… and _then_ I would have had myself a fine evening."

Well, that was surely… unexpected. She was different from what he'd thought, Eomer realized, or different from what he'd imagined, rather. There was a ruthless quality to her spirit that was surprising, but it was there none the less, in the folds of those words she spoke and the deliberate calm with which they were uttered. She seemed to lack the lenient heart of most women as she so obviously lacked the inclination to bend and be dominated. Instead, in her there seemed to be a controlled sort of ferocity that was fire hot as his sister's was ice cold, and a prideful bearing that allowed for no false impression: she would bow to no one less deserving.

"Lothiriel…" Elphir began, but his sister had had enough.

"Peace, Elphir. We can speak more of this later. Right now, I think we've kept our most illustrious guests waiting long enough."

e.l.e. .e.l.e.l.e.l.

When the southern Princes joined them, just moments after, it was impossible to tell from their faces that they had just been through a rough argument. Princess Lothiriel stepped in first and there were no traces of the tiredness of before on her face. Her hair was wrapped away under a shawl of golden lace that went around her head like a turban. With her hair hidden away, her face was even more prominent and Eomer's eyes fixed on it instantly, as if drawn: he looked upon eyes lined with dark kohl and lips of a faint pink, the shadows under her eyes gone.

Eomer suspected that she had painted her face to hide her fatigue, and it worked, she looked better… and older, thanks to that dark paint around her eyes that brought the elegant shape so starkly in view, the deep blue of her irises vibrant. Her dress was of a strange fashion, one that he had not seen in Rohan or Gondor so far (which on second thought made sense, since she haled from much more southern parts of the realm): of the palest purple and embroidered with golden decorations, it fit her figure rather liberally. The only part of her figure the dress emphasized was her narrow waist, around which she had tied a golden sash. But it was true that scrubbed and cleaned and dressed up in such a fashion, she looked like the princess she was, and when she turned a bright smile to her guests, her presence seemed to fill the room.

"My Lords, well met, and forgive us the delay." She said as she came forth and the men rose from their seats to greet her.

Eomer did not miss his chance.

"I would more readily forgive the delay, my lady, if it were your brother apologizing for keeping you." He said and fixed hard eyes on Elphir, and Imrahil's son had the good sense to look uncomfortable… where the Princess only smiled crookedly, not in the least embarrassed. On the contrary she seemed amused, one eloquent brow rising upwards.

"It seemed my brothers and I also must apologize for raised voices." She said before Elphir could speak and Echirion, who was at the other side of her, dismissed both his siblings with a well-placed eye-roll.

"I think sister, that Eomer King wanted me to apologize for raising my voice _at_ _you_." Elphir said as and his siblings moved towards their guests.

The princess scoffed, and managed to make it look delicate.

"You would spend the rest of your days apologizing, if you had to beg pardon for _that_. It would get redundant very soon." She said dismissively and tone brought a smile to her brother's face, finally easing the worried lines away from his brow.

Just as Lothiriel made way for her brother to sit at the head of the table, as he always did when their father was absent, Elphir caught her hand and brought her with him to the first seat. The surprise showed only briefly on her face, before being schooled away.

He bowed a little to kiss her knuckles gently.

"I think this seat belongs to you still. Forgive me my harshness, sweet sister."

The Princess tilted her head a little, her face melting into tenderness at her brothers words. "I love you even for your harshness, dear brother. All is forgiven."

Elphir smiled and drew the chair for her to sit in. As soon as they all took their places, the servants appeared with trays of food and many a discussion began at once. With two kings at either side, a Marshall, a Captain and her brothers around her, Lothiriel felt that there was much more wisdom in listening that talking. And they spoke of the campaign and the battle, the city and finally the provisions to be distributed. It was only then that Lord Aragorn (it was still too difficult to think of him as king, especially because his manner was frank and open, though as courteous as it befitted his station) spoke to her directly, transferring the attention of the whole table on the Princess.

"I am curious my lady, how could you manage to gather and organize so many provisions in such little time. Any way I think of it seems to leave me blank. Unless you had prepared them beforehand."

The lord looked at her in the eyes as he spoke and there was something there, as if he could simply tell the truth of any matter apart by simply looking at her, _into_ her – such was the intelligence that sharpened his familiar grey eyes.

"I had had provisions ready for quite awhile, my lord. I thought that keeping at least ten ships always ready to sail for any direction was a precaution that we could do with. My captains agreed with me." Lothiriel said as she looked from Lord Aragorn to her brother, knowing that he too wanted to know this.

"And with the big cities all closed in, food had to be send to them on regular bases – which was the duty of warships. The captains were of the opinion that if they kept to their usual patrolling routes and took a care when unloading the food, none would suspect their true purpose and attack them."

"And none of the ships suffered an attack? In all these months?" Elphir sounded disbelieving, and even Echirion was looking on his sister with a frown. The princess only shrugged, as if she could offer no more explanation that that.

"I suppose we had luck on our side. And the corsairs were so anxious to charge Minas Tirith that they did not want to risk any conflict beforehand."

"What of the countryside? What is the situation with our crops and livestock?" Elphir enquired again, surprising Lothiriel.

Lothiriel did not want to be the centre of attention in this table. She had worked so hard these past few months and though not proud of how she had achieved all her goals, she had succeeded in honouring her duty to her people and her father… but still, she did not wish for this kind of scrutiny, not from such men.

But, as it seemed, it was inevitable.

"When I had word of the southerners moving north, I send a garrison to hunt them down, but it was too late. Delft was burned to the ground, not one stone left unturned, so were the fields around it and the herds. The men I send did their duty well, the hunt that ensued gave enough time for the villages north of Delft to gather what harvest they could and retire into the walls of the closest cities. Still, we've lost almost all of the cattle and grain in the southernmost parts of the realm. The reports I got back was that only around 60% of the food was saved. But as for the villages that were left empty… of them I know nothing."

As the Princess spoke, Eomer was reminded starkly of the fall of the Westfold. They had been unable to do anything but watch their country burn, and again it was brought to sharp relief how much destruction his people could have been spared if Théoden had been out of Saruman's and Wormtongue's reach. Swiftly his uncle would have acted, and decidedly - as the Princess had.

But soon the conversation moved towards other topics and the princess was spare further questions, and Eomer had the distinct impression that she was glad for it. Mostly she sat in silence and watched the men speak of all they will. He saw a quiet smile appear on her face as she watched her brothers make merry with their friends. She did not seem at all bothered by the booming laughs, the raised voices of soldiers as they spoke. Not even Eothain's roaring laughter made her flinch – even though many professed he sounded like an injured boar when he laughed and Eomer agreed. And yet, the princess was leaning against the back of her chair, sipping at her wine delicately… and in that very moment watching him. Their eyes met and when she smiled at him in the familiar way of friends, Eomer could not help but return the gesture in exactly the same way, even though he hardly knew her. The Princess leaned forward, obviously intending to speak to him, and Eomer did the same, turning to look at her fully on the face and trying not to be distracted by the sight she made.

 _Betrothed_ , the voice of reason whispered in his mind.

Strange, so strange that she should affect him so. Someone unknown, but a familiar smile as if he'd seen in all his life in dreams he was just now remembering. He was being as ridicculous as a girl in the first heat of summer, he knew it, and yet – he did not move.

"Do you find your rooms to your liking, your highness?" she asked, and Eomer had no idea why, but he had the strange feeling that there was something else she meant to ask him. He did not know her well enough to judge such intent, and yet it seemed so obvious.

"My rooms are excellent, my lady Princess, thank you."

She looked at him for a moment, as if deciding with herself: was she going to say what she really wanted to say or not? There was indecision in her eyes, but then her smile was renewed and Eomer knew that he would hear her mind this time.

"I hope you will forgive me for saying, but I am glad I met you before I know exactly who you were, your highness." At his amused half smile, she quickly added. "Oh, don't misunderstand me, I was deeply embarrassed of having been so free with my words. One should show proper deference to a king, and though my station allows me to be freer than some, I would never behaved the way I did, if I'd known who you were."

"Then I'm glad you did not know." Eomer said readily and found that he could say even more – what he had not yet voiced with anyone. "I have not been raised to think myself a king; my cousin had to bear that burden. I have always been a rider, soldier of my realm. Now that all seem to defer upon me… it's unsettling in its own way. I don't quite know how to react to my closest friends addressing me as ' _your highness'_."

There was a flash of something else besides understanding in her expression, but she did not voice it – like so much else, she hid it in those fathomless eyes and Eomer was starting to get the feeling that the princess was not to be known by her words, but rather in her silences.

"It's strange is it not? To be responsible for so many. To have them all look upon you, hoping you can save them." Her words rang quietly, and Eomer heard them in the loud room as clearly as if they had been alone. Her words rang so true that he felt them, as much as he heard them. Strange it was, yes, very much so; frightening also. Eomer thought of the great dread that overtook him whenever he allowed himself to think that way, and could feel his mood darkening, his frown settling low upon his face.

Her hand reached out to land upon his forearms, light and warm even through his shirt… and he noticed something that he had not noticed before: there were silver rings on three of her fingers and also, the back of her palm and her fingers were decorated with markings, tiny dark dots that formed elegant flowery designs.

"Don't dwell on it now my Lord. It will only trouble you and it's too fine a company for such dark thoughts. I'm sorry I stirred them that way."

Eomer's eyes met hers, a little startled because he had not expected her to know so clearly which direction his thoughts were heading (and because her hand took its time to leave his forearm and even after, he felt her touch still, too keenly for his own good). But with her there, smiling and so ready to drive his dark moods away, it was easy to heed her advice.

"You were saying how glad you were that you did not know my exact identity, when we first met." He prompted.

Her smile widened. "Yes, and now let me tell you why. You see, you appeared to me so very grim and stern this morning. Such a forbidding sight you made in your armour, so tall, broad and fearsome and a frown so firmly in place-"

And Eomer had to smile at the face she made, as she fleetingly tried to reproduce his expression. "-but I was not afraid, nor was I intimidated. I have lived among warriors my whole life, I know better than to take such hardy faces and dark moods personally. But had I known of your reputation, Eomer King - of how you ride a beast of a stallion and that you are a giant who can kill orc with your bare hands or that you'd downed two mumakil yourself with one spear... all that nonsense that soldiers whisper you can do - _then_ I would have been much more intimidated by your very presence."

In the soft light of the day, her comely face seemed to him very smooth, young and tender, and as she spoke her expression softened even more by the warmth in her eyes, the small smile she was giving him.

"… and perhaps would have failed to see how gently you could look upon a person, or how kind you seemed to me, when I thanked you for my father. Had I known who you were, then I would have failed to see you, my Lord."

Eomer did nothing to fill the silence that fell once she stopped speaking. What could he possibly say to that? How could he express the depths of his reaction or how touched he was by her honesty, by her very words and what they meant?

But her smile told him that he needn't say anything and just then, she chose to get up and call attention upon herself.

"My Lords, by request of my father, I offer you the hospitality of our home, and we would be honoured if you stayed with us for as long as you intend to remain in the city. Now if you excuse me, I must retire."

She raised her cup and all did so as well, drinking one tiny sip before bowing hr head and walking away from the table. The men rose to honour her passing and then set down again and conversation started much rowdier than before, now that the ears of the lady were away. But Eomer took little part in the lively discourse. He listened, laughed, spoke when he had to… but his mind was elsewhere. Perhaps somewhere in the floors above them, perhaps there over his very head now, getting ready to finally rest her weariness away. His thoughts gathered and stretched, and it was to her that they strayed.

o

o

o

TBC::


	4. The darkest hour

 

_**4** _ _. The darkest hour_

" _There is no worse death than the end of hope. When you have lost hope, you have lost everything. But then, even when you think all is lost, when all is dire and bleak… there is always hope."_

_\- (adapted from) Pittacus Lore –_

It was well into the night when the council between those that were now the leaders of the Armies of the West finally ended. Gandalf had spoken to them and Aragorn had laid their grim plan. All had agreed, if only to give Frodo the Hafling a chance, this one chance, to finally destroy evil from this Middle insisted that both Eomer and Aragorn come and share his home and the Prince insisted so much that to the Dol Amroth residence was where Eomer headed after he had gone to Eowyn's bedside to find her as sound asleep as this morning. She slept so much these days. If Aragorn had not assured him that it was to be expected, Eomer would have found himself losing his mind.

When he got to the Prince's home, all were gathered in front of the main guest hall: Aragorn sitting by the fire on the furs, and Elphir close to his side, speaking with the ranger in low voices over what must have been a cup of wine. They were not speaking of the decision that had just been taken, for they were all determined to keep it to secrecy at least until the morrow and Eomer knew that Imrahil had wanted a night of peace with his family, before breaking the news to them… he knew and he understood. Eomer's entrance was barely noticed, even as he sat down in one of the empty seats, the cushions soft against his back. He felt comfortable in his borrowed clothes if only because it was a relief to be out of leathers and chainmail, even for so little a time. He knew without doubt that soon he would have to wear them again, much too soon, and the decision weighted on him. There was no escaping the fate that awaited them and as he glanced about the room into the faces of the warriors surrounding him, he saw the same heaviness in their eyes that he felt in his soul.

Except… no, not on all of them.

Eomer felt his lips lift up in a smile despite his grim mood. Imrahil was talking to whomever his attention was called to, but there, arms wrapped around his arm and head of dark curls (tamed into more orderly waves now) resting against his shoulder was his only daughter, wrapped in bold red velvet and a thin golden circlet around her forehead and that disappeared under her hair, which marked her for the princess she was… A Princess who was drowsy despite the voices around her. Her lids were heavy and kept dropping until it seemed as if she was finally asleep, there on her father's shoulder like a child of ten years old. Eomer knew that he was not the only one to have noticed it, but none made to waken her, not until Imrahil became aware and smiled on his daughter. The Prince put a hand on her face and was about to gently wake her, when Amrothos, perhaps thinking it a funny jest, in remembrance of old days past, gently kicked his sisters leg with his foot. The Princess startled visibly, drawing in a harsh breath as she was jumped out of drowsiness, but what instantly set the company of men at edge was the very familiar sound of steel against sheath and the glint of a blade in her hand as her alarmed eyes looked about, the sheen of sleep chased away by fright.

It was as if she had taken the tentative peacefulness that had settled between the company a moment before and smashed it to the ground. The regretful pieces of it scattered away in the night and the silence that reigned was such that not even a stray breath was heard.

Eomer did not dare even blink. He had seen countless men react that way to being woken rudely, (indeed it was better to awaken a warrior by voice and standing a good distance away, lest you should find yourself with a blade at our throat) and women too. You'd be hard-pressed these days to find a woman of the Mark who did not know how to yield a blade or kept one within easy reach at all times... but he had not expected it from a Princess like her, who had grown with four warrior men to protect her from ever having to sleep with fear.

But then again, she had not been with her father and brothers this past year, had she? Who knew what she had lived through in those days of solitude and uncertainty… In the end, the simple truth was that, Princess or not, she was as obviously as tightly strung as any of them and just as easily startled.

But she was however, very swift at gaining control over herself. It took the lady only a moment to be composed again, and the blade that glinted so dangerously in the candle light disappeared in the folds of her sleeve silently.

"I beg your pardon, I…" but for the very first time, her words failed her as she looked around and took in the astonished faces of the men around her. She got up and curtsied stiffly. "It seems I am worn-out, my lords. I shall retire. Goodnight to all."

And she was gone in a swish of cloth before they could even rise from their places and bid her goodnight as her station demanded. Imrahil watched his daughter climb the stairs hastily and then turned impatient eyes towards his youngest son. Amrothos had the decency to wince.

"I do not fault you for hoping your sister has been left unchanged by this time we spent apart, but you are a fool indeed son, if you cannot see the truth." The Prince said in such a hard voice that Eomer had never before heard, at least not directed to one of his offspring. Amrothos' usually so relaxed expression had gone. The young man got up and without even bothering to excuse himself, went after his sister. The rest of the company cleared out after that, everyone leading themselves to their chambers.

Eomer sat in the dark confines of his own for a long time kindling the flames and pacing the floor. He was so tired that sleep would not take him and his mind was heavy with all the thoughts that would not permit him rest. In the night's embrace, he suffered, for nothing short of a blow to the head could possibly stop his darkest thoughts from assailing him. No rest for this son of Eorl this night, even though his exhaustion was so bone deep he could weep from it… But there was no silence, no peace, even now. _Everything_ came to haunt him, every mistake, every little thing he could have done differently but didn't, every way he'd failed. Such dark times they had passed, such darkness they were to face still. So much had been lost so quickly that he had not even had the time to mourn. Now, in the hours of the night he felt so alone that his heart ached with sorrow too deep to contemplate, a grief so strong Eomer was afraid of it. His heart and soul pained for the uncle he had lost and the cousin he'd had no time to mourn, and the sister that was even now in the grip of the Black Breath. Ached for a destiny that seemed to be forever entwined in death and suffering, not a glimpse of light anywhere to guide him, give him hope…

All these thoughts besieged his mind and the walls of his room seemed to close in on him, taking his breath away.

e.l.e.l.e.l.e.l.e.l.e.l.

He heard her before he saw her. His senses were as sharp as always and in the darkest hour of the night when all seemed to be lost to the world, even the whisper of cloth against marble and skin shouted its presence.

She was descending the stairs and within moments she would be within sighting distance from him. Eomer did not want to startled her: it must be strange to see a man laying by the fire in your own home - but if he spoke before she saw him herself, she might be even more frightened. So Eomer let Lothiriel of Dol Amroth make her way and spot him at her own time.

The Princess came into his line of vision slowly: first her bare feet as she quietly descended the stairs, thin ankles, white calves. He caught sight of her white gown - it must be her sleeping dress and at that realization Eomer felt instantly more ill at ease. But as he looked more closely, he realized that she was wearing what seemed to be several layers of cloth, and then realized that she would have a robe of some sort on, of which he was grateful. She came into moonlight and looked like a ghost clad in layers of white smoke, but the ethereal quality that seemed to surround her was broken by her very human curls, messy and wild about her. And when she noticed him, she inhaled sharply and stopped dead in her tracks, her hand going to her chest, as if to steady her heart (and a part of him was grateful she did not draw steel at him as well, this time)

"Your highness..." She whispered out of breath, and there was relief in her voice once she realized who he was. "You startled me, I did not expect anyone up at this hour."

"Neither did I, which is why I took the liberty of coming down here. I did not mean to frighten you, forgive me, but I thought it best not to speak first."

Her relief now took the form of a chuckle as she came nearer. "I'm glad you didn't. I would have fallen off the stairs from fright had I heard your voice in the dark."

Eomer made to stand now that she unlikely to scream the house down, but she held her pale hand out and stopped him.

"Please, I do not wish to intrude on your solitude. I was merely going to the kitchens to fetch myself some tea to help me sleep… and I shall bring you some as well, for you seem in need of it."

And she moved away to the direction she had said she was going, silent as a vision that did not touch the ground at all. She did not even give him time to object or decline and now he had to wait for her to come back... which she did sooner than he expected. And when she did, the forefront of her hair was tied back from her face giving her the appearance of being tidy (even though those shorter curls escape to frame her face) and her robe was perfectly poised on her shoulders, laced up to the very last ribbon – it had not been so before. That did not make standing next to her easier and had Eomer been kinder to himself he would have found a reason to leave, but he did not. The truth was that he did not wish to be alone.

"My dear Hilfild knows my habits - she had left a pot of my favourite tea over the fire."

Eomer took the wide cup the Princess offered (painfully careful not to brush her fingers and burn himself as he did so). With the crisp scent of lemon and strong chamomile that came from the cup, came also the sweet and almost heady fragrance of her skin, or her soap, or whatever it was. It was unmistakable, because it had the warmth that only another live human being could have and it burned its way through his dark thoughts and into his lungs like a wildfire… Eomer felt the hair on every part of his skin stand up, galvanized at her being so close. He was incredibly aware of her presence and all the more vulnerable to it because he had felt so deserted before she had appeared. Only moments before had felt as if the world had forgotten him and he alone inhabited this earth. But the silence that pounded his ears had been breached by the sound of her bare feet on cold stone and she had come out of the darkness to remind him that there was life still, warm and vibrant and just there next to him. And because he still had some sense left in him, Eomer reminded himself that he was not acting reasonably and that this was the betrothed daughter of Prince Imrahil, an honourable man to whom he had sworn friendship.

Eomer reminded himself of all those things, before he allowed himself to skim the surface of how badly he wanted her in that moment… without reason or sense, same he had wanted her from the moment he saw her, but differently now – now it was a want of the tangible, the physical. This was something he knew… and yet new, because so violently the desire boiled that he could barely control it, with the same inexorable strength of both his darkest thoughts and most relentless hopes; a longing to strong it could break stones. It was a desire born of solitude and despair as much as her personal appeal. It would have been unfair and untrue, to say that she could have been anyone and he would have wanted her the same… but the real truth was that the vulnerability of his mind was leaning him towards paths that he would not have treated, had he been calm and in peace.

Unexpectedly, just as his fingers grasped the cup she offered, she also handed him a white flask.

"It's my father's favourite brandy. He mixes it with the tea when he has trouble sleeping, and I thought perhaps you might like to do so as well."

Eomer felt something within him tug a little and felt foolish because of it. Had it really been so long since he'd been in the presence of simple kindness?

"You're very thoughtful Princess, thank you." He said quietly and took the flask from her. She thanked his with a smile in return… and then started to walk away towards the stairs.

She was leaving…

"May I..." Eomer stopped. He'd spoken without thought and now that the words were out, he wished he could take them back, but he could not. Painfully aware that she had stopped and half-turned to him expectantly, he gathered all his courage to finish his sentence.

Was he really going to do this? Dare he?

With a resigned sigh, cursing himself for still being a brash fool even as he approached his twenty-eighth year upon this earth, he finished speaking.

"Forgive my forwardness, Princess… I was about to ask you to join me for this cup of tea, but too late did I remember how exhausted you must be and how late the hour. I will not take offense if you refuse, the request is ridiculous, I realized it myself, only too late…"

But she hurried to shake her head, smiling and already turning to sit on one of the plush sofas directly in front of him.

"No, on the contrary. I myself was wondering if you would like the company, but thought it too audacious to ask, even for me."

Their smiles were of the same nature, soft and understanding of each other's minds and it was comforting (and in a way, agonizing also) that she would like his company too.

Lothiriel brought her cup to her lips, letting the hot liquid warm her from the inside out and tasting the honey in it. "I should have known better. Insomniacs should always keep each other company." She said almost absentmindedly.

Eomer smiled and they stayed in silence for a time, her sitting on the sofa, surrounded by colourful pillows and he sitting on the furs by the fire, his back resting on the sofa behind him, each prey of their own thoughts. Lothiriel wondered what was on his mind to make him look so grim, and Eomer wondered at how much she must trust him to look at him so openly, or to sit with him so at ease at such a dark hour. Was it because she was utterly unafraid, or was it because she did not know any better? Had she ever been in the company of a man outside her family so late in the night? Did she even know the effect she had as she stood there, so reachable, so close? And how she looked at him... unflinching, with a steady eye sharpened by intelligence and softened by kindness. Within that open look laid the truth of her nature, Eomer realized: bold, but open, as if she would listen to anything he had to say and judge nothing. It was in her honest eyes that Eomer found the answer to his question. The truth was that she had no true understanding of why exactly she should _not_ be in his company just now, no way of perceiving his state of mind, not because she lacked intelligence, but because she did not know him – how could she? To her he was a man whom her father trusted enough to open his own home to, a man to whom she owed the life of whom she most loved – and those were her own words. And if she thought he was in need of companionship, then so what if it was the middle of the night? If her brothers and their behaviour were anything to go by, perhaps that was what she too understood by friendship.

Eomer startled when he fully realized how dangerous that made her. Dangerous to _him_ , that he could feel that way around her. He, a man who had never spoken of what he felt even when what he felt almost choked him, a man who had learned to guard his secrets with his life and knew well the weakness there was in too many words… and yet she called forth his secrets by just being there. _Dangerous_ , his mind whispered, and Eomer looked away from her and into the fire. And it seemed that looking away was not enough, because his mind was so full of her that even in the fire he could see her likeness.

"Is your mind so troubled, my Lord, that you should not find even a small measure of peace this night?"

Her question was so softly spoken that for a moment Eomer fancied he had missed the wording of it, even thought he did not. There was honest concern in her eyes when Eomer met them and he realized that she was smart enough to know that what put his mind to such unrest would not be without consequence for her as well, or her brothers, or her father. That was what he thought as he looked at her. He simply could not imagine that her concern in that moment was for him alone.

"After some time, one loses hope of finding peace, my lady princess. Even rest becomes hard to come by." Eomer replied and felt his heart even heavier in his chest.

"I wish with all my heart for you to find both, your highness." The Princess said candidly and Eomer blinked at her in surprise for a moment, before he remembered himself and simply nodded his head at her by way of thanks. She seemed such a strange, contradictory creature: so full of hidden things and so cautious with her words, measuring of her every step - so much so that one seemed to be surprised when she so readily spoke her mind and feelings, even though one shouldn't. There was confidence in her eyes, that never wavered, despite her silences.

"My lord, is it too late to extend my condolences?" she asked after awhile, sounding apprehensive for the very first time, and Eomer gave her a small smile.

"It's never too late for that." Was his response and Lothiriel saw it was true to him, in the way his grim expressing melted away from his face and his eyes gentled.

"I am so very sorry for your loss, Highness. I am sure I cannot begin to comprehend the depths of your pain."

Why should a stranger be so moved by a sorrow that did not even belong to her? Why should she look at him with such compassion?

"How fares your sister?" Lothiriel asked then, not sure if she should keep speaking of this when it was so clearly the very matter that darkened his thoughts, or if she should turn to frivolous conversation to take his mind away from such musings. Keep his sorrow company, or distract him?

"My sister is unchanged. Aragorn assures me she is physically healing but I worry for her. Sometimes I feel as if she will never wake up and if she does, I fear for what she…" Eomer stopped his tongue and looked up at the Princess as if startled. She noticed his eyes widen, startled perhaps that he had said so much even though he'd hardly spoke at all. He refused to open his mind to anyone with such resoluteness that it was no wonder he felt so miserable.

"You may confide in me if you wish. I'll take your secrets to my grave." Lothiriel said, willing him to look at her, see that she meant it, how much she wished to be even of the smallest help to him. And though it was strange and incomprehensible that she should feel in such a way for a stranger, (terrifying was the word she refused to use, because that was the prevailing sensation he made her feel… but Lothiriel was not one to bend to fear!) She was sure of her feelings, as she had always been, and for the sake of them she would bend all rules, even if that made her reckless and careless. What mattered was that there was something about this king that called to her from a deeper place in her soul; something ghostly, as if from another time or another life, perhaps from dreams she no longer remembered. Something that made her disregard all sense. That made her sit with him and offer her ear even if she knew she could have no advice to give to one such as him. She only had a desire to be there for him, born from a need she did not understand, but that became immediate and undeniable when she'd seen the vulnerability in his eyes. It did not matter where this bond she felt tied, whether into past or future, whether it was true or she was simply being the night's fool. What mattered was that she felt the strong pull of it and it made her want to help him even in the most miniscule way. In whatever way.

How she wished he could trust her, even if a little… and how ridiculous that wish felt, when they knew next to nothing of each other.

"I cannot explain what it is to be a brother, Princess." Eomer started and his deep voice in the half darkness startled her.

"I have first been a son to my parents and a brother to Eowyn and that is who I am. But my father died, my mother followed, the one I loved as I brother was cut down and the one who was to me as close as a father, died just a week ago. And Eowyn, the only family I had left… she was driven to such despair that she sought death. I _felt_ her die in my arms…"

His eyes were shiny with emotion and Lothiriel wanted to go to him and take his hand in both of hers and hold it tight, take all that pain from one who deserved all its measure in happiness. It was precisely then that Lothiriel realized what it was that really ailed him, that gave him such pain and struck such fear in the heart of one so brave. It was the same sorrow that had dug a hole in her own heart... and once she saw that she felt foolish for not recognizing it sooner. But when she did, Lothiriel realized that she knew exactly what to do, knew precisely what to say. She did the very thing she had wished someone would have done with her, spoke the words she would have begged to hear, in her most lonely hour.

Eomer saw the realization settle in her features and then the determination take hold in them, strong and unshakable. She got up and came to kneel by him, took his hand in both of her and stood firm against his very obvious confusion.

"You're not alone, Eomer King. Your sister will come back from shadow and you will find happiness and peace. You will be a good king and your people will love you. And you will _never_ be alone."

Eomer stood very, very still, as if he could not move even to breathe. Her face shone in the fire light with a fierceness that was almost frightening. And so was her ability to push away all the words that did not matter and see straight to the heart of the problem. She believed every single word that came out of her mouth and spoke to him with the same honesty now as she had this morning at the courtyard of the Houses of Healing.

And what she spoke of was disconcerting to say the least.

"You have lost so much and no one will ever be able to replace your family, but please believe me when I say this: as long as my father and brothers have breath and strength in them, as long as I live, you will _never_ be alone. Family can be found as well as born into and we will always be there for you when you need us, just as family would. That is the promise my father made you when he recognized our kinship."

Eomer did not know what his expression showed to those searching blue-blame eyes that held such strong confidence. Wrapped in dancing shadows and golden light she seemed almost unreal. Unpredictable – that was what he had learned so far of her nature. You expected on action, and yet, she floored you with another that was completely her own.

"You are an outlandish creature, Princess." He said slowly.

He could have said that she was too passionate for her own good as well, and impulsive also and too tempting because of it. That she should take more care with her actions and how generous she was with those she trusted. He could have warned her that, had he been a lesser man, he would have kissed her then and there. Kissed her mouth long and hard, because in this lonely hour, all her passion and impulsiveness and kindness was practically an invitation to do so, even if she did not know it, or mean it that way. But that would have meant taking advantage of her trust and her open nature and he would not do it. Because he was not a lesser man - he was Eomer, now King of the Mark and she would always be safe with him... and perhaps she knew that. What she could not possibly know was that he felt too blessed by her so open and freely given trust to breach it that way.

And he also kept his peace because after the kindness of her words, chiding her for them would have been cruel.

"I've been called worse things." The Princess said, lips curved upwards just a little. "Do you believe my words?"

His smile was his answer, but he spoke one all the same so that there be no misunderstanding between them.

"I believe you."

But the princess did not notice how the very faint accent he put on that last word changed the meaning of his statement. She only smiled at him softly.

"Finish your tea while it's still hot my Lord, and perhaps you'll find at least some sleep tonight." She said and took her hands away as tactfully as possible and put a little more space between them as she sat cross-legged on the furs.

"One should always hope." Eomer said lightly and took his hand back as he drank the last of the tea she'd brought him in one gulp.

The tea was sweet and the brandy strong and perhaps because of both, he was starting to feel drowsy. Or perhaps because the very fact that he was not on his own kept the darker thoughts at bay, and that it was _she_ by his side was even better. He could not have asked for a better keeper… and how funny that thought was: Eomer, rider of the mark, many years a warrior, seeking the guardianship of a girl half his size. But then again, he could not defend himself from what ailed him with sword and shield. So he looked at his guardian, sitting not a foot from him, white dress pooling around her and eyes looking into his, so studiously searching his expression. She seemed like a little girl to him just then, and without knowing why, he smiled.

"Tell me of your home, lady. Tell me of the City by the Sea."

Lothiriel's surprise lasted only the space of one blink. The surprise did not lay with the words themselves, but in the way he spoke them, the voice he used, the look in his eyes that seemed dark and warm in the firelight… but then again who was she to put such limits when she had been the first to break them?

"My home… my home and the sea are one. Have you ever seen the sea, Eomer King?"

He told her he had not, and she made him promise that he would do his best to try and come to Belfalas one day, so that he may see it himself.

"I cannot describe it. It is as a lake might be, but vast, without boundaries, an expanse of water that stretches as far as the eye can see and changes colours with the wind and the sun. At night it's a mirror for the stars and the moon. It can be from the clearest azure to the brightest green and when the storm roll through, it's the dark and angry blue and it roars and heaves as violently as the skies when they open up. It moves as if it has a mind and soul and the sailors say it's as traitorous as a woman."

Eomer's laugh burst from him and it felt like the sun sifting through the grey clouds of a storm.

"They say other things, but it would not be polite for me to repeat them." And only one corner of her lips curled upwards giving her an incredibly mischievous look, so much that Eomer could almost imagine her as a child, running around asking for the favours of unknown rangers.

"I believe that. Your brothers certainly do not restrain themselves in your presence."

"No, they do not. And why should they? I'd rather they treat me equally, for I _am_ their equal, than treat me like a silly flower or a frivolous pretty face." She said firmly, but then a moment later a smile lit her eyes. "Besides, had Elphir not been harsh with me, and Echirion not cautious, I would have been much more spoiled and wild than I am, for I am not sorry to say that my father denies me nothing."

Eomer raised his eyebrows at that, but did not comment because he was starting to understand a little more of this Princess. He had a feeling that this she did not see her father's weakness for her as such. She simply saw it as love and honoured it as such with her own.

"And what of Amrothos?"

Her smile turned conspiratorial, and he had return it.

"Amrothos is my playmate. Though we were quite vicious with each other as children – and twice as much with others! Why, just a few years ago, he was cross with me and so he took scissors to my hair – that's the reason why it's still so short!"

Eomer chuckled and for the very first time he took notice of the lengths of her curls: shiny in the firelight like black steel, they grew perhaps a inch or two short of the middle of her back in waves and loops, and yes, it was short for the standard – women of his country tended to let their hair grow out to their hips and Gondor was not so different. But her hair was beautiful none the less, and he knew it would be soft and smooth as silk...

"This seems to be the way of all brothers. My cousin and I did the same to Eowyn, long ago – admittedly, we were still children." Eomer said. The princess positively smirked at him.

"Your sister? The shieldmaiden that slew the Witch King of Angmar? I shudder to imagine the reckoning she put you through."

But she did not shudder at all, only smiled.

"Her punishment was so exemplary we never tried the same trick again. And you? How did you exact retribution?" Eomer asked and her eyes twinkled. The very corner of her mouth curled upwards and she looked so impish, such a girl that he felt ancient in comparison – not in age, but in spirit. Eomer had not smiled that way in… well, too long to remember.

"Unfortunately for my family, I used to be an incredibly vengeful child, and quite slow to forgive: I shaved off his eyebrows and bleached his hair a horrific shade of yellow." The Princess deadpanned and Eomer held back his laughter, because had he not, he would have woken the household and that would not do. He did not hesitate to make his astonishment known.

"However did you manage that?"

"Oh, I'd put ambrosia in his wine - it made him sleep like a rock for about 12 hours. For quite a while Amrothos looked as ugly as like a ragged dog, because father prohibited him from changing his hair back, just as he forbid me from hiding mine. He said that was to be our punishment: that our change should be permanent and visible to all."

"My sister was much more direct than that, thank the gods! She took sword and rocks to us, gave us the beating of our lives."

Lothiriel chuckled quietly. It was hard to imagine anyone beating this king. He seemed strong enough to take on a mountain. She looked at him then and found herself comparing him to another man. A man to whom, whether by her will or not, she was tied to… and who was now far enough away in the south for it to be easy to pretend he was nothing more than memory. That she belonged to him however, was a stain that no amount of hot water and furious scrubbing could erase. She knew, she had repeatedly tried.

"Well, I though since his trick would leave me with lasting consequences, I should repay in kind." Lothiriel said flippantly, and the kind smiled. But even as she spoke she knew that that hadn't been all of it. She had known that Amrothos, for all his humour and light demeanour was as vain a creature as any, so she had taken away that which people most complimented him on. It hadn't been simple payback; it had been calculated cruelty… and now that she thought back on it, Lothiriel could feel her cheeks heat with embarrassment over it. And perhaps for a moment she forgot that the king did not know all that, and kept on speaking, elaborating, as though her thoughts and past were written words for him to read.

"Amrothos had wicked ideas that were always fun, but I was worse I'm afraid, because I did not dread punishment like he did. I was resentful of the power they - the men of my life - had over my destiny. So I grew to find my own ways to assert independence, even though I knew it was a lie: I broke all the rules and the harsher the punishment, the better I felt about it."

Eomer listened and as she spoke there was a strange expression on her face. It did not sound as if she was proud of herself. On the contrary, her expression turned sober, the darkness of her thoughts overtaking her entirely, making her hunch a little into herself. It was easy to think of her as a child that would have a penchant for trouble if he remembered the way she could sometimes smile so crookedly, but it was hard to imagine her so wicked as to intentionally cause harm in anyone.

"You're confused I see." She pointed out, looking at him as if she held some secret… which she probably did.

"I would have to be a much wiser man not to be, my lady." He admitted simply, making her smile.

"I know. The story itself is confusing… but that, I think, is a tale for another time. Should I start now, morning would be upon us before I finished."

That was a delicate way of denying him an answer, but Eomer allowed the Princess her wish, because if she did not wish to tell him more, now was not the time to prod.

"What matters is that I got myself into trouble quite often… but I was ever afraid, because I knew Amrothos was always one step behind me, to make sure I got out unharmed." The princess said almost absentmindedly. "It hurts him, I think, to see me so changed. He does not know how to speak to me, as if he's afraid the wrong word will break me… and I do not know how to reach to him either."

And Eomer saw that this distance hurt her too. He knew all too well that kind of pain that came with loosing someone close to your heart, thought they were right there in body.

"Are you so very much changed my Lady?"

Lothiriel hesitated at the question, because it surprised her. Perhaps the only reason he could only ask that so easily when her brother dared not, was because he did not know her well enough, love her well enough, to dread her answer. Or rather, he would not know the difference: the one she showed him was the only Lothiriel the King of Rohan knew.

"It was strange being away from the protection and rule of my father and brothers. I had to do everything myself and never had I realized just how much there was to do. It made me understand how small I was in the grand scale of things, how little I mattered in the face of thousands suffering. Yes, I changed… and now a year later, _this_ is what they see in me: a different person."

Ah, yes. Here Eomer did not need explanations. ' _This'_ was a creature of contradiction, with the eyes of a woman, sadness of a old lady and the smile of a girl. A person that had too many silences, that was quiet and with shrewd eyes, that held back much and spoke harshly when she had to… but laughed loudly and jested freely when she could. And there was a thirst for life in her, that overrode everything else. She reminded him of a wilted plant that had been starved for sunlight and water, but thrived within moments of coming into contact with both. But he found in her none of that anger she had spoken of, at least not that Eomer could see. Perhaps that was what was missing, that confused her family so.

"It would take the world ending to make my father stop loving me, Elphir speaks to me the same as always and Echirion knows my mind before I even speak it, but Amrothos is different. He looks at me as if… as if he dreads me. Hugs me as if he's afraid to break me."

She did not say however, that there were moment when she thought her brothers was right… She did not because the King was looking at her so closely that she felt if she uttered that truth, he would be able to drag all the others from her like a string of unbroken pearls.

"Perhaps you should simply speak with him of this. Tell him of what is different in you and what is not. Brothers and sisters can never grown too much apart princess, especially when they do not want to." Eomer said and saw as she stayed in silence a moment as she contemplated, and then nodded, once again sure of herself.

"I shall do as you said. I think it is best for both of us – we were ever plain spoken with each other, there is no reason for that to change... But enough of this dreary talk. I forget, what were we speaking of before?"

Eomer conceded. "You were telling me of your home."

"Indeed I was. That was quite the distraction! What would you like to hear of Dol Amroth my lord?" She asked with renewed liveliness that seemed utterly out of place at this hour, but not in her.

"I's have you tell me of the things you love." Eomer said softly and knew that he was pushing boundaries, saw it in the pause of her fingers on her robe, in the way her whole body was unmoving for the shortest moment before she relaxed and smiled faintly.

"I love my country in the spring when the fields are lush and glossy green under the sun and I love it then they turn golden like a godly carpet in autumn. I love riding through these fields under spring rain and walking through the orchards of the south in late summer, seeing the trees heavy with fruit and feeling their sweet smell in the air. I love looking upon the hills from the windows of my rooms and seeing the olive trees ever green."

Her voice was warm and her accent did something strange to the common tongue: the words rolled in her mouth, they lost edges, smoothed out. Eomer felt her pull him into the words, into the images she was trying to paint.

"My windows face east and every day I rise with the kiss of the sun upon my face - that is the favourite part of my day. And every time I can, I go to my father's study, and together we watch the sun set because his balcony faces west. He, unlike myself, likes to see the sun go down and set the sky and sea aflame with its dying rays. I like to see it born, again and again."

Eomer had leaned his head at the armrest of the sofa behind him and was feeling drowsy as her voice washed over him like a blanket, pulling him into a land of quietness, where the only sound was her describing the sea.

Lothiriel noticed that he was looking at her through the heavy lids of exhaustion and she kept speaking, willing him to close his eyes and sleep.

"It is warm where I come from. The desert of Harad is not too far south and sometimes the hot wind of those places blows and you can feel the heat of the desert sun on your face and breathe in the scent that springs from the dry earth and hot dunes of my country as it mixes with the salty tang of the sea: it's a wind that can be felt nowhere else in this Middle Earth. To me it's the scent of home."

Lothiriel pause to take a breath and Eomer gave her a sleepy smile.

"You love you country, princess?"

Her eyes were as warm as his smile. "I do, my Lord. Every grain of sand. Every rock in the river."

"It sounds like a beautiful place." He said to her, words half whispers, so close he was to falling in the grip of sleep. Lothiriel lowered her voice instinctively and slowed her speech.

"It is. It's a enchanting place to grow up in. I remember the sun's fingers reaching through the room through latticed windows and falling on the colourful rugs, and myself lying on the floor for hours just looking at the particles of dust in the air glitter like small stars. All the memories of my childhood are tied to the sweet, heady scent of jasmine and roses from the gardens that comes all the way inside the palace, and in the afternoon it mixes with the scent of spicy coffee and incense that burns in the corners."

Lothiriel could have gone on speaking of Dol Amroth, but the King was finally asleep and no longer heard her. Silently, she reached to the sofa and took the blanket draped on its back and with great care, she tried to put it over him, so that he would not suffer the cold of the night. But she could not be silent enough to escape his instincts. A hand grabbed her wrist roughly, freezing the breath in her lungs, and warm hazel eyes blinked open and then closed again (instantly his grip had relaxed but he had not let go).

"Keep talking." He murmured, eyes sliding closed again and not opening again. "Tell me..."

Eomer felt the ghost of a touch on his brow, so gentle he thought he had imagined it. It went from his forehead to is temple, smoothed back his hair… faintly he felt it, as if he was being touched with a feather. But there was no mistaking the warmth of her skin, the scent of the inside of her wrist, warm and sweet… even in half a dream he responded to it: he turned her face to her hand, following her touch.

Lothiriel put a hand on his shoulder and whispered to him to lie down in the furs and Eomer, in his half asleep state was as compliant as a child and allowed her to cover him with the blanket.

"Sleep, Eomer King. The world can wait one more night. Sleep…"

His breathing slowed and deepened into the patterns of sleep, but he still held her wrist between his fingers. His skin was as rough as she had thought it to be - as her brother's hands were, as her fathers. Hands that wielded swords, while hers had never taken up anything hardier than a pen. Her skin was as smooth and soft as his was coarse and she felt the difference from the tips of her fingers to the tips of her toes, tingles taking her in all the wrong places. There was a moment when he pulled at her wrist and his intent clear as his hand travelled up the smooth skin of her forearm, bunching up her wide sleeve and a small moan, soft as a breath, sounded in his throat… and in that moment Lothiriel stopped breathing and her heart drummed insanely in her breast, bruising her ribs. She felt a little lightheaded and was trembling, as if she was suffering a fever. Instinctively she knew that what he wanted was for her to lay down next to him. And then came the warranty of his desire, because he pulled gently at her forearm until Lothiriel had to bend over him so close she could have kissed his lips, enticingly parted just a little so that the very tips of his white teeth showed… His breath fanned on her face and he smelled chamomile and brandy. She knew that she was being wicket, but did not care as she took a deep breath from his breath. She fancied she could imagine the taste of him this way. The warmth in her contorted and took life, filling her so much she felt lightheaded.

"Lothiriel…"

Her name on his lips was tangled by sleep, and yet even then he refused to release her. She felt tears sting the back of her throat, their grip strong and painful, just as an iron fist twisted her heart. Gently, her hand went to his and pried his fingers from her. She put his hand on his chest and slid her fingers between his as she pulled away, the only caress she could afford for him. (and even from such a fleeting touch, the feel of his skin burned its way through her).

"Sleep, warrior king. Rest."

And if Eomer woke up the next morning with the remnants of strange, but not frightening dreams clinging to him, he thought nothing of it, for he had not slept so peacefully in a long time. His heart was heavy with thoughts of what must be done for the upcoming battle, but those dreams clung to him and gave him a lightness that was strange, but that felt right, and among his better thoughts, there was the memory of a kiss, light and warm on his brow, hazy as if from a half remembered dream, that told him there were things in this world that were worth sacrificing for.

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TBC:::


	5. A Princess of the City by the Sea

_**5** _ _– A Princess of the City by the Sea_

" _I am the sum total of everything that went before me, of all I have been seen done, of everything done-to-me. I am everyone everything whose being-in-the-world affected was affected by mine. I am anything that happens after I'm gone which would not have happened if I had not come."_

 _-_ Salman Rushdie _,_ Midnight's Children

Imrahil watched his daughter as she dealt with the Steward's advisors as they swarmed her with everything they thought she should be aware of. It had been unkind perhaps, to leave her to deal with men that always spoke too much and said quite little, especially at a time like this… but out of all his children, she was the one who was most inclined towards patience even in the face of obstinacy – and that was saying a lot, since his daughter was not exactly famous for easily accommodating fools. But she was far less likely to draw steel in the middle of negotiations - though after last night, he was not quite so sure of that , it was good to see her about, to watch her navigate her way through the piles of all that was superfluous and efficiently separate from it the heart of every matter. She was calm, dispassionate, efficient. She had grown into someone different from the stubborn, defiant daughter he had left behind. She was her own self now and Imrahil was proud of who she had become when she had been left to her own devices.

Well, that was perhaps stretching the truth, since - though he admired the way she had so wholly grown into her roles as a ruler - Imrahil did wish he could ease the shadows that swarmed her eyes when she thought nobody was looking. She had a strange look on her face now, a forlorn quality in her eyes he could not place… and it was a strange brand of helplessness Imrahil felt as he saw that darkness had clouded her once pure heart as well. That she had grown out of her resentment could only be a good thing, but at what cost, he wondered? And all he could do was wonder, because as always, Lothiriel pretended nothing was amiss, that she was perfectly fine and had never missed a second of sleep over anything. She had such a vivid personality that hiding her darker thoughts was easy to her, because she could so easily overwhelm you – and she knew it too. In fact Lothiriel made use of her charm and wit frequently. She'd rather suffer in silence than admit to any weakness.

 _That_ was his daughter's greatest flaw – it was so because she did not see it as a flaw. A skewered perception of strength was what his youngest suffered from, and Imrahil knew it was his fault.

Lothiriel did not have a healthy way of processing pain, or hurt, or fear. She did not deal away grief, she accumulated it behind an unaltered exterior… and Imrahil had a fear that her heart would one day wither with the heaviness of her secrets, if she did not learnt to let go.

And how miserable he felt now, that he could not have taught her better, that he had not been able to teach her that strong did not mean unyielding, unbroken, unbending. Brave did not mean fearless, and wise was not all-knowing, or without mistakes. He had not taught her these things, and now he did not have time to do so anymore. His Lothiriel had never learned to tell the difference between giving in and giving up, and mistook one for the other. The perception of strength she had had from him and her brothers had taught her to be unyielding to tears. She always chose not to show hurt – she responded with anger. And she never showed fear, only cold distain. And as for pain, she bore it with the steel strength worthy of her warrior lineage… defiantly almost, as if every wince she withheld was a victory.

Was it really true what his sister said, that by needing her to be as much of a fallback as her brothers, as much of a ruler as any of them, he had forced his daughter into a way of life that did not suit females, that took the compassion and gentleness out of them? That dried the tears from their souls. _Unnatural_ , Ivriniel said… But he resisted that notion with every thread of his being. No, there was nothing unnatural in his daughter. The fault laid with him, for not teaching her better.

"Father…"

His head snapped up at meet his daughter's eyes.

"Echirion has come back with the reports from the first three levels. It's all a jumble but I have sorted out the essentials. I also promised Amrothos that I'd…" Her torrent of words stopped as she came closer, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Father, are you well? You look pale…"

Imrahil smiled at her concern, at the very familiar way she frowned as her eyes took him in from head to toe. He'd have to tell her of the march today. He had to, before news became public. It would break her heart to hear of this from anyone other than from him, and she would spear him no measure of her anger for it.

"I am as well as can be expected, my daughter. What did you promise Amrothos?"

"That I'd go with him with the distribution of the provisions. Personally I think that Elphir's idea of setting up distribution points on every level is more practical - especially for the people that need to get to them."

Imrahil nodded. "You should say so to the Steward." He said pensively.

"Undoubtedly Elphir has already consulted with Faramir. I would not mind the chance to go for a ride to Harlond however." And there it was, that familiar half smile. Imrahil returned it.

"You have earned a break from the walls of the city – but take care, I need you back at twilight, for I wish to speak to you and your brothers also of an important matter, and I wish to do so before I go into council with the lord of the city tonight."

The smiled went from her face and she nodded to him with the same automatic way that captains nodded to their general. Her eyes were sharp with intelligence and full of questions, but she asked none.

"Of course father."

Patience and faith in him was another thing she seemed to have learned in their absence. Another surprise for her father, that.

e.l.e.l.e.l.e.l.e.l.e.l.

The next morning was a flurry of activity for Eomer and his Marshalls. There were plans to be made, the soldiers to assemble, the routes to be drawn… all of it. He spent a great deal of time in council with the men of Gondor and his own, seeing to the preparations. And all the while _she_ hovered in the periphery of his mind, the ghost of a thought even when he was not thinking about her at all. He knew that because every time he caught sight of a skirt, he'd try to look if it belonged to her. But for all his obsession, it was by accident that he caught sight of her.

They were on the sixth level: Eomer, Elfhelm and Aragorn - Eothain and Gamlin soon joined them as well. They were talking plans over a meal in one of the otherwise deserted taverns of this level, enjoying the anonymity that their simple clothing provided. Eomer was not particularly sure what he was looking at, or why he was facing the road in that particular moment, but it seemed that his carelessness was meant to be, because that was when he saw her through the window… and this time it was not his imagination. She made a striking picture in her vibrant burgundy dress, especially against the grey and white of the city walls. As she walked, she held a stack of papers in her arm and was currently perusing one , without paying much attention to her surroundings, so she startled when the first roll of lightning and thunder ripped the sky. Eomer saw her look towards the heavens, frown and then hurry her step, but not a moment later the skies opened with a vengeance and the downpour was so hard that she was half-soaked before she found shelter under the nearest ledge. She stood there, shivering as the wind blew the cold of her wet dress even deeper into her skin and clutching those papers to her chest as if her life depended on not getting them wet.

Eomer did not need to think about it. He got up, dismissed with a wave of his hand the attempt of his riders to follow and then, with his cloak under his arm, he ran to the opposite side of the road, not caring in the least about the rain splashing onto him.

When she saw him, and knew him, she smiled widely… and Eomer was reminded instantly of why he had been thinking so much of her.

"Greetings, my Lord King! Such a fine weather we're having." she greeted as he came close, making him smile.

From the other side of the road his riders watched their King and the southern Princess laugh together and then they stood very still as they saw their lord wrap his cloak around the princess' shoulders and pulled the hood up thus completely obscuring her face. With the king's cloak around her shoulders, it looked as if the Princess was wrapped in a blanket rather than a cloak, and though tall for a woman, a trait she shared with her brothers and father, the cloak dragged as she and the King ran through the rain and back into the tavern. Her joyous laughter was the first thing they heard, as she brought a pale hand up through the folds of the cloak to pull the hood down. And if any of the Rohirrim had not known until this moment that the fair Princess of the south held some form of affection for their king, they would have been enlightened then, by the smile she gifted him with. It was the kind of smile that did not start at the lips, but in the eyes, and gave light to her whole face… They kept talking as they came to the table, and the princess must have been telling their king something funny because a strange amusement lit his eyes and curved his lips.

"My lords, well met." She said as she came upon them and then immediately asked them not to disturb their meal by getting up. She had such a cheerful a way about her as she sat down, as if the sky opening up to unleash a downpour on them was a merry thing. But perhaps she had another reason to be in such good spirits - that was what most of the riders on the table thought – Elfhelm however was the only one who dared to voice it…

"Well met, my lady Princess. Green suits you."

…and earned a vicious glare from Eomer for his efforts.

The Princess however was more courteous, possibly not even realizing what was the true meaning of the Marshall's words… and also because a compliment from someone who looked old enough to be her father could be accepted with nothing but gracious politeness.

"Thank you Marshall. And thank you again, your Highness, for your assistance." She said turning to the King who only mumbled something that sounded like ' _it's nothing'_.

They took their seats… and ironically enough – if one were to naively believe that Elfhelm ever did anything casually – her seat had been added right next to where the King of the Mark had been sitting.

"Were you on your way to your home my lady?" Which made sense, seeing that her the Dol Amroth residence was only a few houses down this road, but that was not the point: Elfhelm's his easy manner broke the initial stillness of the situation – _that_ had been his motive.

"I was my lord. I was to accompany my brother to the docs of Harlond and help him with the distribution of the provisions, but the prospect of riding seems much less appealing now."

"It's but a spring storm, my lady. It will ease soon enough." Lord Aragorn told her.

"Let's hope so. I was looking forward to going for a ride."

"You don't take guards with you when you move around?" Eomer asked suddenly, and saw that his question surprised her – that little frown appeared between her brows, but she smoothed it out quickly.

"No, of course not. I know this level well and everyone here knows me. Besides, the city is almost deserted." Lothiriel explained with a shrug. Elfhelm passed her an apple, which she took with a small thank you.

"When are the civilians expected to return?"

Lothiriel turned to look at Lord Aragorn, to answer him properly. "I don't rightly know my lord. Some have come already, but there is no definite plan yet. But I expect that they will pour out from all of Gondor, once they hear that the King has returned." She said with a gracious smile.

"Faramir will have his hands quite full at court. Hopefully by that time I will be gone." The Princess said and then, as if realizing how her words could be interpreted, she hastily mended them. "Not that I don't want to see you restored to the throne my lord. I will certainly be present for the coronation, whenever you chose to have it…"

"My lady…" Aragorn tried with a patient smile. But the princess was determined to finish, mortified of her slip.

"I only said so because I have never had much of a taste for the court of Minas Tirith. As highest ranking lady in all of Gondor, whenever I came here I had to assume the functions of Lady of the House, and hold court and… well, there was nothing more tedious, to be honest."

"I do not doubt your sincerity, my lady." Aragorn said patiently, straining not to chuckle. "And I understand your reservations."

And it seemed that that would be it, but Eomer could not resist teasing her a little.

"I suppose it would be quite the change to go from ruling a province such as Dol Amroth, to trying to entertain fickle nobility."

Lothiriel blushed, a pale rosy hue staining her cheeks and getting darker, until her cheeks were almost red.

"Well… that makes me sound like a right snob full of my own importance, doesn't it." The princess said drily and the men around her laughed – one of the two captains who had never met her before, Gamlin was his name - almost choking on his drink, so suddenly did the laughter come to him. But her attention on the King of the Mark who was looking at her in the eye and trying not to give his game away by laughing outright, even thought the sentiment showed in his eyes.

"You are not far off the mark, my Lord." She finally allowed. "My education differed from that of other ladies: women of Gondor are generally taught to submit; I was taught to decide. Adding to that the fact that rules of behaviour are much more severe here than in Dol Amroth - and that is as it should be since Minas Tirith is after all the city of kings. But still, a woman of high birth is expected to have a much more passive life in this city, and that is not my way."

"And of course - " She added, as if in afterthought. " - the fact that I am not exactly known for my patience does not help much either."

That earned her a chuckle from around the table.

"I've never known a lady to be so honest with her shortcomings, Princess. It's quite the novelty." Elfhelm commented, a cheeky grin on his face that could almost make him handsome.

Lothiriel did not even miss a moment. "Well, since I have so few of them I can afford to be honest, Marshall." The princess said blithely, yanking a hearty laugh out of the older man.

"I suppose the lady who is hailed to be the most beautiful face in all the realm of Gondor can be afforded some shortcomings." The Marshall said, smirking as if he knew a secret nobody else did.

"I disagree my lord. Beautiful women should never be forgiven anything more than plain ones – it usually makes them think they may have the world for a smile." The princess countered, and Eomer found himself intrigued.

"And what of yourself, my lady? Do you not consider yourself beautiful enough or are you simply above such defects of character?" he teased, his words dancing with humour.

The princess laughed with great delight. "Oh, there's no risk of me becoming too haughty over the quality of my face my lord. I've grown up with three older brothers to keep me humble: Amrothos used to chase me around the palace shouting that I was so ugly I scared all the horses."

The loud laughter of five men filled the quiet tavern and this time even the serving girl did not contain her amusement.

"I do not believe it for a moment!" Elfhelm declared, and rather loudly too. "Why, I heard it just this morning that to everyone in this city you are known as the Jewel of the Sea: the fairest thing Gondor has to offer!"

Elfhelm had meant his words as good humoured, since it had been obvious, even through the small amounts of time their ways had met, that the Princess liked to tease and she certainly did not lack the wit to tease back. But this time, his joke went amiss, because the Princess's eyes flashed and her face froze, the smile melting off it. There was no humour in her eyes. The Marshall noticed immediately.

"I beg your pardon my lady. I meant no offence." And his tone was sincere, thought how his words could offend was a mystery to Eomer. But the Princess shook her head and gave him a smile that was kind, but did not reach her eyes.

"Please Marshall, the fault it mine. I had simply hoped that the White City had forgotten that name by now." and it was obvious by her tone and the softened look of her eye that she meant every word. "They do call me that, yes, though I assure you there are a great many ladies in this realm that surpass me both in beauty and in virtue – and that is truth, not modesty. That name was the concoction of a man who liked nothing of me but my pretty face, but who realized that having a princess hailed for great beauty could be a valuable commodity to trade."

Had his Marshall been a man better versed in the subtleties of conversation, perhaps he would have caught the intended note on the Princess's voice. It would have warned him to change the subject… but Elfhelm was not a subtle man and Eomer could find no way of warning him that the Princess would not catch.

" _Trade_ , my lady? I'm afraid I do not understand." The frown on his face made him look fierce and he was looking at her with those clear sky-blue eyes as if he expected to pull the truth out of her eyes, not her lips.

She smiled at his frankness… and his naivety.

"It is the way of this realm to make peace and galvanise friendship through marriages of convenience. If the lady is highborn, as myself, her marriage becomes a matter of state and is decided upon by the Steward himself. My own betrothal was made in such a way, to secure an ally for Gondor." She spoke calmly, but the words sat so ill on her mouth, so disjointed they were with the rest of her person that it was as if she was simply parroting them out.

The Marshall watched her for a moment.

"So what you mean is that, as a Princess, you're a valuable hostage?" Elfhelm said bluntly, making all those in the table freeze.

" _Elfhelm_!" Eomer warned sharply, eyes darting at the Princess. She was looking at the Marshall with new interest, but her eyes were hard and her smile sharp enough to cut glass. From her face there was no telling the contents of her thoughts.

"That is one way to look at it, yes." The princess said slowly, every word passing though her teeth with care, eyes fixed on the Marshall without blinking. Some moments of tense silence passed and then the Princess seemed to remember herself.

"Are marriages of convenience not usual in the Mark?" She asked, lightening her tone and looking around the table for an answer and at her apparent relaxed disposition, the whole table seemed to let out a breath of relief.

"It is rare, I admit. Our countries do not have the same customs and the society of the Riddermark is not as layered as that of Gondor." Eomer said diplomatically, hoping this would be the last of this particular topic. But his men had other ideas… and Eomer had a mind to ban them from the table when Gamlin opened his big mouth.

"Any man of the mark would be afraid to take an unwilling wife." The Captain said as if it was obvious and that drew the Princess' attention.

"How so?" She promptly asked, and though none of his men dared answer, because Eomer's glare was fierce enough to have them swallowing their own tongues, it had not effect at all on Aragorn, who apparently did not wish to leave the Princess ignorant of Rohirric customs.

"After the vows are exchanged, part of the ceremony is that the man must kneel before his lady and offer her his sword, so that she may one day give it to their firstborn son. There is a saying in the Mark however, that cautions men against taking this lightly, for the maid may very well cut of his head, if her suitor is wanting."

Lothiriel felt her eyes widen, but then a smile made its way to her lips.

"Has this ever happened?" she asked almost awestruck. Secretly, Eomer noted that there was a strange glint in her eyes and he wondered if maybe that was the fate she'd like to inflict upon her own betrothed… But that was his own bloodthirsty thoughts, not hers surely.

It was Eothain who answered her last question however, a small smile at the corner of his mouth. "It is said that a shieldmaiden of Rohan once took the life of one of her suitors that way."

And it was strange to the man at the table how, of all possible reaction, the princess laughed with delight.

"Oh, your country sounds like wonderful place my lord." She said looking at the king of said country, and then at his Marshall. "I must be sure to visit it one day."

"You would be welcome, my lady." The king answered evenly, though he looked at her in a strange way, as if he was seeing her for the first time and Lothiriel wondered if maybe she had said something more than she should have… But promptly the conversation started again and into lighter topics, and the insight she had given them into Gondorian customs was soon forgotten.

In no time however, the company broke. Lord Aragorn got up and excused himself, saying that he was expected by her father and with him rose also the Marshall and the others. Lothiriel took a look outside. It was still raining cats and dogs out there, and the sky had gotten even darker, (so much so that the lanterns inside the tavern had been lit) but the warriors around her did not bat an eyelash.

"I suppose it does not matter that the heavens are still pouring like mad, does it." she said flatly. Elfhelm smirked, and the other two even chuckled. Lothiriel rolled her eyes.

_Men._

"We've ridden through worse storms my lady." The Marshall declared indifferently. They were all up and ready to go and she saluted all of them, and only then turned to the King of the Mark, who had not moved.

"You're not leaving, your highness?" she asked carefully.

"My council is not as badly needed… and I would rather not leave you here alone." The king explained smoothly, instantly putting Lothiriel on an uncomfortable spot.

She sat a little straighter on her chair. "I would not wish to keep you, my lord…"

"You'd rather send me into the storm then?" He asked, regarding her seriously with those unfathomable eyes that in the dimness of the tavern seemed to be dark hazel. Lothiriel blinked twice, stunned at the sheer cheek of the man, and then raised one eloquent eyebrow at him. The action caused him to break his mask and finally smile.

They bid goodbyes to their friends and moved to a smaller table and closer by the fire. Her hair had started to dry and her curls were going to be impossible to tame, but the thought did not bother her as much as it should have.

"Would you like some wine?" The king asked as they sat down.

"Only a little, please. Spirits and I don't usually agree." But she held you her cup all the same. "I should not like to make a fool of myself in front of a king as well."

" _'As well'_? That sounds like an interesting story." He prompted but in return she only narrowed her eyes at him as she sipped her wine carefully.

"Hmm, I don't think so." Lothiriel countered, eyeing him with suspicion.

The king shrugged noncommittally. "I'll just get the whole of it from Amrothos if you don't tell me… and I have a feeling his tale will be much more amusing."

Lothiriel could not help the small twitch of her lips that were fighting to curve into a smile. "Are you threatening me, my lord?"

"I'm merely presenting alternatives."

"Sounded a lot like blackmail to me, but perhaps in the Mark you call it something else."

Finally the King gave into the impulse and laughed, and Lothiriel started telling him about a midsummer's night, some years ago.

e.l.e.l.e.l.e.l.e.l.e.l.

… until the conversation somehow ended up being about the Minas Tirith nobles that Eomer King had so far met - and Lothiriel had something outrageous (and true) to say about each and every one of them, until the king was reduced into peals of laughter. It was strange to be able to look at him this way, eyes twinkling with merriment and manners easy and relaxed. He looked so much younger when he smiled and laughed, felt so much closer… the flames reflected on his face, his hair, making him look as if he was entirely made of gold. Lothiriel found she very much liked looking at him.

"…The man's laziness oozed even from his compliments. Comparing me to a _swan_! It's too obvious even to be clever, and has become redundant and frankly boring. Besides, swans are utterly useless animals – I should take offence next time someone compares me to one."

The King smirked, such an expression on his face that it made Lothiriel think he had been a very mischievous boy in his youth – such charming smiles were not born, they were self taught when you needed them to escape a spanking.

"You are right, the comparison is wasted on you. You, my dear princess, are an eagle … or some other proud, predatory creature."

Lothiriel had looked at him for a moment, astounded at his words, and then the laughter she could no longer hold back had bubbled out of her. Eomer joined in.

"An eagle you say? Well, I think I like your idea better, my Lord. Certainly more original."

"I do what I can." He'd said with a shrug and then looked at her in the eye for a moment that regarding her seriously for a moment. "You don't like compliments, do you?"

It may have sounded like a question, but she could see it in his eyes that it was not. Had it been anyone else, Lothiriel would have kept her answer bare and minimal, perhaps added a joke to divert the topic… but then again, had it been anyone else, she would not be sitting here an hour after they had been left alone, laughing with this man as if nothing was wrong in the world.

"I generally feel they are deceptive, only the means to an end, and that end has nothing to do with the flattery itself." She answered honestly and was met by his small frown.

"Everything is the means to an end." The king said as if that proved her words wrong somehow.

"Yes, but when the end is to play one's emotions through pretty words that are not heartfelt, then the means to achieve it become deceptive and cruel. It's manipulation, my lord and I do not appreciate being taken for a fool."

The King looked at her long in the eye without saying anything and Lothiriel had to force herself not to look away. She found herself flustered by his appraising eyes, looking at her so unreservedly that it felt too intimate and she could not help but feel that she had said too much, spoke of things better left unsaid.

"May I ask you a blunt questing, my lady?" he finally said, and Lothiriel was relieved that he'd spoken… until she realized the dangers of what he'd asked.

Suspicion narrowed her gaze, but then she shook her head with a sad smile, and looked away from him.

"You may." She said as she perused the flames.

"You said you do not wish to be known as the Jewel of the Sea, so my question is… why not? It is a worthy name for you."

And this time it was his turn to squirm under a steady eye.

"I do not like that name, who it came from, how it came to be or why. And I certainly do not like what it makes me into: I am not small enough to be summarized into two words, as if they could encompass my whole being."

Sometimes she felt as if her feelings were complicated enough to fill the personality of three people, and that she would explode from having so much within her breast… and yet that 'title' of sorts hung over her head, mocking her struggle. But most of all, she hated that name because she had heard it too many times from the lips of one she now hated. And because too many times upon hearing it, she had felt like a pearl in a box, just a precious stone to be added to a collection and nothing more, not ever.

A name could be many things. Sometimes it was another way to imprison.

Eomer watched her closely as she answered, and then caught the look on her face when she stopped speaking - it did not take much intelligence to know there was much she had left unsaid. The words she refused to speak were in her eyes, as if the whispers he felt behind her lips could still be sensed in the way she looked away from him. Her every word had been curt and to the point. And still, he felt as if she had given him no answer.

"Who did that name come from?" Eomer dared. The princess was looking at him so intensely, as if she could open up his head, reach out for the thread of his thoughts and break it, but Eomer was not intimidated: he had yet to meet a man – or woman – whose sharp scrutiny he could not withstand.

"My uncle, the late Steward of Gondor." The princess answered tonelessly.

_Ah, so there you have it._

"He was a strong man, the steward. But the virtues he most admired in women were submissiveness, modesty, gratefulness and brevity of speech, if any… so you can imagine how much he liked me."

Yes, Eomer could. But what he did not have to imagine, was how little the princess had liked the Steward back. Why, if the frigidness of her tone was no indication, then the fierce look on her face would be.

"And yet, he knew that a Princess renowned for beauty and heir to a large dowry could have many uses. Indeed, it was among his greatest regrets that my mother died before she could give him a few more like me." The Princess said impassively as she looked at the fire. This time that faint curl of one corner of her lips seemed to give her an almost cruel expression, so cold and hard she seemed in that moment. Eomer was very much troubled by her words. There was such a malicious bite to them that it seemed astounding she could even utter them – she, who to him had been nothing but kind and gentle. But then again, as his uncle used to say, there is no light without dark in this world. Nobody was perfect and Eomer had done her injustice to think her so.

But still, he could not help but speak his mind just then. To him, her despising her uncle so much seemed unnatural.

"That is an unkind thing to say of a dead man, my lady." Eomer pointed out gently, making her turn unaffected eyes to him.

"Then it shall fit the Steward well: unkind and dead." She said curtly, flat eyes looking at him without any warmth. But then she looked away as if she regretted her outburst, and with a deep sigh the anger seemed to go out of her. When she looked at him again, the coldness had gone out of her, but she seemed to him tired and sad.

"Death does not make my uncle a better man in my eyes, my lord. I have no fond memories of him to rekindle, he only caused me sorrow. I hated him and he despised me, and to pretend different just because he is dead would make me a hypocrite."

She looked at him as she spoke and though the harshness was gone from her tone – indeed she spoke almost softly - her words were as crudely straightforward as they could be. She did not pretend to be something she was not, or feel something she did not… that on its own was not without honour, despite her severity.

As if she knew what was going through his mind and an almost indulgent smile touched her lips, though it did not reach her eyes. "You must think it so strange, that I have such feelings for my uncle. You, who loved your own so much."

Eomer nodded. "I do think it strange… but I cannot believe your feelings are without reason."

And he didn't. He simply could not yet see that reason.

"My father taught me that as a Princess I have duties to my realm. That I was born in privilege and with that came certain sacrifices… however, I do not think he meant that I should be taken from him the way I was. I was fifteen when the Steward promised my hand to the Lord of Tolfalas: a man who had been making pretences for my hand since I was twelve. Denethor forced my father to accept, and I… well, as a woman, my opinion was not needed."

She took a deep breath and smiled in a forced way that did not befit her at all.

"I felt abandoned, betrayed. And I took every opportunity to show it – raged hell at Denethor's court as vengeance until he was forced to have me banished. I was angry all the time, made my father miserable for quite a while. I fought with him and Elphir over everything, did not listen to Echirion's advice and the only one that I allowed close was Amrothos, but only because he was willing to be as wicked as I was. Looking back, perhaps he was only pretending, just to keep an eye on me."

She looked down and seemed to grown even smaller as she huddled into herself. There was such deep regret on her face.

"I hated the Steward for trading me like a herding as much as I hated him for what he made me into: a proud, thoughtless idiot who could not see beyond her own troubles... But the truth is _I_ was the only one to blame for being so self-centred."

The princess breathed deeply and when she released that breath, she seemed to let go of the past with it. When she looked at him again, she was not cold or distant anymore. There was even a wistful expression on her face.

"That changed however, when I had to think on the troubles of every single person under my care. I still can't believe father could trust me with running his realm. It stand as testament to his strength, I suppose, that he never gave up on me." And there was such sadness in her eyes then that Eomer could not hold his peace any longer.

"Or perhaps he always knew who you really were, and that your spirit was stronger than what even you thought it to be."

The princess regarded him with unreadable eyes, and when that small half smiled made its way to her lips, he knew she did not believe him, but was only indulging him.

"That is a pleasant way to think of it, I admit." And then, before Eomer could retort – or perhaps because she realized that he would – she smiled more widely, enough to dazzle a passerby. "Why, you have a strange way of getting secrets out of me, your highness! I think I just told you the very long story I refused to begin last night!"

And though her smile was radiant, as if she was truly amused, there was a plea in her eyes, to please let this go.

He did… for now.

"It's the duty of friends is it not – to uncover secrets?" he said finally, thought the words were as light as air. The relief in her was palpable and Eomer felt badly for pushing. What business was it of is anyway? She had been very polite indeed not to send him to the seventh pit of hell for his nosiness.

But as they fell into silence and Lothiriel looked at him again, she found that for some reason she could not look away from his face, from the intensity with which he was looking back. There within that moment they were alone, no matter how loud the men around them were being and how high the fire was roaring. Lothiriel found herself ensnared by the way the fire danced in his eyes, on his face… on the forearms that he had bared, because he had rolled the sleeves of his shirt back, and there was this outlandish urge to reach out and touch him there, feel the heat of his skin under her palm and see if he truly was as real as he felt.

Lothiriel looked away feeling as if she'd burned herself. She was not supposed to do this, she remembered. Flirting was all right, it was fun and no harm. So was having a good time, remembering how to laugh after being denied even the pleasure of a simple smile for so long. All these were acceptable. But more than that… no, that was not possible. ' _More'_ was when dangers started becoming real. As real as the way he looked at her.

_See truth in a man's face…_

Yes, she had seen it. The truth of him burned in his eyes when he looked at her so without hesitation, without the caution that was usually so firmly in place on his face and that schooled his features into being unreadable, even dethatched and stern. But he'd dropped that caution for her and Lothiriel knew that she could want him as much as he seemed to want her, if she allowed herself. But she could not, because there was more to consider than him and her and what they might want. Because they were not just a man and a woman in a tavern, waiting for a storm to pass, no matter how pleasant a fiction this was. She had to consider the world's truth, and that sword-over-her-neck that everyone called duty. Harshness, impatience, unpredictability, vindictiveness… all these and many more were her faults, but in the end, she was her father's daughter and she knew she _would_ do her duty. Dragging others down to her suffering simply was not fair, and would have added cruelty to the list of her defects – and that was one quality she did not want to possess. Her very being shied off the notion of being so cruel to _him_ in particular.

Eomer sensed her retreat. She pulled back from him in every way a person can pull back from another: she sat straighter in her chair, not leaning into him anymore; she looked at him with polite interest once more, the passion in her eyes gone, the intensity hidden away. Even her smile seemed lukewarm, as if she was putting on another face. The princess, Eomer realized, did not seem to be entirely comfortable with the ease they could speak to each other. Every time it seemed to catch her unaware, and she only realized it when it was too late. But this time Eomer did not let her step back from him.

"Do you pray, Princess?" The king asked suddenly, so abruptly that Lothiriel was wrenched out of her thoughts. The surprise at the disjointed question momentarily threw her off the retreat she was so carefully manoeuvring herself into and that was precisely Eomer's aim.

"Only when forced, your highness."

"You don't believe in the gods?" he asked and there was surprise in his tone, in his eyes and Lothiriel felt she could smile at that surprise, but that would have been unkind and she cared for this man too well to do that. He thought the very best of her words, her intentions, her smiles… and there were moments when Lothiriel felt as if she'd lied to him to get him to believe that, as if she'd manipulated him. But most of the time, she felt as if he was the only person in her life who knew her truly, because she could not remember feeling more like herself than she did when she was with him…

"I believe in them. I just don't like them very much.1" Lothiriel answered softly, as if she was speaking words in a language she had forgotten.

This was dangerous ground to tread - secret always were. She had never in her life told anyone hers – every time she tried, it felt like she gave up pieces of her soul. But now she just felt like she was letting burdens go. She had simply grown too tired to carry them, and he was a very kind stranger, which meant it was easier to tell them to him.

"Why?" the king asked, gently, as if he already suspected the answer. Lothiriel reminded herself that perhaps he did – after all, he had lost almost all those he called family to the cruelty of the gods.

"Everyone who loses someone wants revenge, on the gods if they can't find anyone else. But when my mother died, I was so young. I didn't understand the concept of death you see, the finality of it. I thought that if I was a good girl, if I did as I was told and prayed very, very hard, the gods might return her to me. I was four.2" She said, smiling as if she was apologizing for such a silly notion. But there was such understanding in his eyes, that she had to look away again. "Of course when they didn't, I was hurt. Then I started to become angry, and stayed that way for a long time. For quite a long time actually. Finally I settled into quiet resentment and have yet to get over this particular phase."

Lothiriel smiled at him even though she felt as if she was betraying herself by telling him this. She'd never spoken about her mother to anyone. Not to her father or her brothers, or her cousins. It had been impossible to speak to them of her, when the same pain burned in their breast as did in hers.

But it had been easy to tell him about it.

"I think I know what you mean, my lady."

And the way he'd said that, the warmth of his voice still carried to her, made her feel as if she could tell him anything… everything.

Lothiriel turned her eyes to the window, reminding herself that there was a whole world out that and they both had places in it, duties to fulfil.

"The rain is stopping." She said softly, but did not look back at him to see what his face would tell her.

She'd rather not know.

In the depths of her heart, there where all else was silent, she decided: this had to stop.

o

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o

TBC::


	6. The nature of predetermination

 

 

_**6** _ _. The nature of predetermination_

_"God long ago drew a circle in the sand exactly around the spot where you are standing right now. You were never not coming here. This was never not going to happen."_

\- _Elisabeth Gilbert -_

They walked in silence through the streets of the sixth level until they reached the gates of her home. She was still wearing his cloak, fastened securely around her neck so that the chill of the wind wouldn't bite at her and the heavy hood up so that the monstrosity that was her hair after the rain wouldn't frighten innocent would have felt sorry for the King – he was left standing there in a shirt and a sleeveless tunic only, and neither looked substantial enough to protect him from the elements… yes, she would have felt sorry for him, _if_ she had not been able to feel how hot his skin was, as if the wind did not affect him at all. Her arm was on his and he had not bothered to pull his sleeves down: his bare forearm under her palm was solid, strong and warm, the tiny hair on it coarse and they tinkled… and a strange curiosity grabbed her: would the inside of his wrist be smoother, would it feel softer?

Lothiriel wretched her mind away violently. How was it possible that one small taste, instead of annihilating her curiosity, inflamed it more? The moment she did what she wanted to do – touch his hand, feel his skin – she did not feel as if she'd achieved her desire, she was simply left wondering if she could somehow find a way to push boundaries more. What was it with this man? And what was wrong with _her_? Always, _always_ she had been able to control herself. Always it had been paramount that she did so. Now it was even more important. And yet there she was, holding her hand over his bare arm and thinking idiocies just because she could not get a firm grip on her mind.

They were right in front of the gates of her house now… and Lothiriel felt she had to get back to the world and leave her musings behind, and thank the gods for that. A moment more and her head would have exploded.

She took her hand back and stepped away.

"Thank you for your company your highness. I had a lovely time." She said politely and could not help but smile at him, because she meant every word. What she didn't expect was him taking her hand to place the softest kiss on her skin.

"The pleasure was all mine my lady." He said looking at her in the eye, tiny smile curving his lips.

Lothiriel bowed her head at him and made to leave… only to remember that she still had his cloak about her shoulders. But just as she made to take it off, he stopped her.

"Keep it. You need it more than I do. Yes, I _am_ sure." And he was gone down the street before she could even utter a single word. The princess who thought herself such a clever creature was left there, speechless… and then infuriated with him – and herself.

 _It should teach you some humility,_ she scolded herself as she briskly waked inside her house. _And to act more promptly_.

As she came in she was informed that her brother Echirion was in their father's study, so she went to find him. She stopped in front of the large oak door, knocked and without waiting to be given leave to enter, pushed her way in.

"Come in Lothiriel."

Echirion's voice came muffled – he was bent over some papers, his back to her and Lothiriel narrowed her eyes. It irritated her that he could do that. How did he always know when it was her? Just as she came in she asked him precisely that question and her brother answered without even looking up from the maps he was perusing.

"You knock thrice, briskly enough to cut through my deepest reveries an always come in without leave… is that a Rohirric cloak?"

The answer and following question came in such fast succession that it almost seemed like the same sentence.

"Yes, it is. They are quite distinctive, are they not?" And then, feeling his eyes and almost sensing his questions, she rolled her eyes and answered. "The King of the Mark lent it to me. I met him at Joya's tavern, with some of his riders and lord Aragorn. He waited out the storm with me and then escorted me home."

Echirion's intelligent grey eyes shone with a thousand thoughts that were mulling over in his mind, but he voice none of them.

"I see." He said laconically and Lothiriel sighed and went to sit on one of the chairs by their father's table, while her brother worked over the most tactful way to say whatever it was that he wanted to say. Echirion was the one of her family who was always cautious and patient and always considerate of another's feelings and Lothiriel loved him for it… but in the end he would say whatever he deemed right, even if it did hurt your feelings, especially if he thought his sister needed to hear it. And this time, Lothiriel knew exactly what he was going to say to her.

"Lothi… look at me please."

Lothiriel had not expected his soft tone. She had been silly not to. Of course Echirion would be gentle with her. Once she looked him in the eye, she saw only concern there.

"You know that you're my sister and I could not love you more than I already do." He waited for her to confirm, so she nodded faintly. "And you know that I will always, _always_ do my best to protect your happiness."

Again he waited for her to confirm it. Lothiriel smiled. "I know, brother."

She watched Echirion regard her cautiously, before he spoke again. But it was not what his sister expected to her and he saw the surprise in her eyes.

"Promise me you'll be careful, please. Promise me you'll be careful with your heart."

Lothiriel could have cried… and for a moment she thought she would, and so did Echirion. He got up from his chair and opened his arm in invitation to her. Lothiriel did not think on it for a moment. She went to him and very gently she embraced him.

"I'm not doing anything on purpose I swear. I'm just…" Lothiriel swallowed with difficulty, trying to put her disarrayed thoughts on the matter, into sensible words. "…I'm just not stopping things from happening." She said with a small voice and felt him nod. And then she drew back so that she may see his eyes and dared speak the true fear that tormented her every moment.

"Is that worse, you think? Am I being wicked?" and there was such a frailty in her tone that it pulled at his chest.

"No." Echirion answered firmly, his embrace tightening instinctively – but not enough for her to hide her tremble. "No, sister. You must not even think it."

And in that moment Echirion knew that both his brothers were wrong. That Lothiriel was not so changed, that she was always the same: their baby sister, who was trying too hard to be everything she was expected to be. But under all that, under the strength that everyone needed to see in her, under the confidence and the intelligence… she was so afraid. She was a girl of twenty, and every step of her way was surrounded by apprehension.

And they were abandoning her, again. She would resent them for it, Echirion knew. But there was no other way.

"Come sister. Change into something warmer and let us go – there is not time to go down to the docs, father is expecting us soon."

He felt her nod in his chest, take a deep breath and pull out from his embrace. And just like that, the girl was gone. There was Princess Lothiriel staring back at him now.

"Yes. I'll go change now."

Echirion hesitated, and then gave in.

"Lothi, Steward Denethor is dead. You don't have to keep the promises of a man who never took your will into consideration."

She looked away, towards the window and to the fast falling twilight outside. In her mind, she closed her eyes tightly against the words, against the possibility of hope. There had been five years of hoping, and just as much disappointment and during that time she had learned that there could be no true desperation, without the flicker of hope, the enduring possibility of change. Without it, the pit of despair was just endless darkness, but if hope remained… it became torment. And she was tired… so tired. So she had stopped hoping. She had never stopped fighting and rebelling… but in her heart, she had given up. Because Denethor may be dead, but Gondor was still her kingdom, and in Gondor, nobles kept their words, because not to do so inconceivable. Their whole convention system was based on men of keeping their promises, honouring their vows. Break them, and you would remain friendless, because you became unreliable. All because of the whim of a silly girl. No, her happiness was not worth that much.

"Let's not talk of it, please. I do not wish to lie to myself, it has never been my way."

She did not look at her brother's face. She knew she would not be able to bear what she would see in his eyes. She could barely stand the soft pleading in his voice.

"Sometimes I feel as if you're keeping yourself from us, Lothiriel. Before, you would do so in anger. Now you do so with indifference and a smile. But how can we help you, if you keep your every imperfection hidden?"

Lothiriel sighed deeply, closed her eyes in a brief moment of exhaustion – with the topic, with herself…

"Everyone is entitled to silences, Echirion." She said softly, finding the strength to look at her brother into the same proud, prickly part of her nature that he had just criticised. "Is it so much to ask that I should keep my pride when all else is taken from me?"

She knew that she was not being fair, that her words hurt him because again it was proven his helplessness. Because they had known for years now that they had to let her go and never be sure of her safety, her happiness. It was a heavy toil to men who were accustomed to having their way all their lives.

Lothiriel stepped forward and gave him a little kiss on the cheek. "Let's not dwell on the past, brother, what's done is done. I'll make my own way." She said softly, taking his hand within hers for a moment. "I'll be down as soon as I change and we can go to father. I have a notion we're already running late."

It did not take her too long to change, and though she was not going riding, she chose to wear warm breeches and thick boots because one afternoon with a wet hemline and cold feet were quite enough for her, thank you. She looked at herself in the mirror as she fastened up her knee-length vest, taking care to smooth out the splits at the front of her thighs, so they wouldn't overlap and deter her walking. But only once in front of a full length mirror did she pay attention to the picture she made. Her thoughts must have been dark indeed, for she wall all clad in black, from her boots to the tight-sleeved shirt under her long vest. Only the delicate golden decorations on the hemlines of her shirt and the gilded buttons of the vest broke the darkness of her chosen garb. With her eyes so shadowed by the kohl she wore as armour, Lothiriel thought that maybe she was overdoing it a little…

But on the other hand, she liked the way her clothes fit her form – in this outfit you could almost not tell that she had lost any weight at all. These days the only clothes that fit her well were her riding garbs; all the dresses she had from before this year hanged a little loose on her form, as if ill-fitting. Such were the ways of malnourishment, she thought with derisiveness.

"Lothi, you're doing it again!" came Echirion's call from across the hall. He'd been pacing up and down for the last ten minutes and Lothiriel smiled. This was usually the part where his patience ran thin. It was amazing how he could be so long suffering of almost anything… and yet he found it so utterly impossible to wait for her as she got ready.

"You're going to make for a horrible husband, brother." Lothiriel countered as she put on her rings.

"I'm going to take a wife that is not as vain as you are, sister." Echirion snapped immediately, making Lothiriel smiled.

"I'll be laughing at you for that when you're made to wait an hour at your lady's door." Lothiriel said as she came out of her room to face her brother with a smirk, in the mean time arranging her hair into a loose bun at the back of her head, purposefully leaving some strands in front of her face free. She liked her hair to look careless, as if it could spring loose at any moment. Her brother sighed and offered her his arm.

"You look lovely…" He said as he pulled her down the stairs.

"You're improving."

"…and hostile enough to be unapproachable. Any particular reason why?"

This time Lothiriel did not answer back with a quip. She only turned questioning eyes at her brother.

Echirion sighed. "If this is your attempt to scare him off, it won't work. Eomer has different mind from the men you have met so far. He is not the kind to frighten easily – on the contrary, I have the feeling that the fiercer you look, the more he will like you."

Lothiriel looked away sharply. "Enough. I don't wish to speak of this for there is nothing that bears addressing."

"So formal… Do you fear my judgment, Lothi?"

Lothiriel closed her eyes and prayed for patience. "I simply do not wish to talk nonsense, Echirion. Can we please stop?"

And though it was formulated as a request, there was no room for denial in her tone. Finally, her brother ceded. "If you wish."

But then again, maybe he did so because they were already at the stables and there was no more chance for discussion. He watched his sister mound with litheness and ease, and within moments they were gone for Mundburg.

e.l.e.l.e.l.e.l.e.l.

The moment she stepped inside the study and saw her father and two other brothers seated around the small table close to the hearth, Lothiriel knew that what they were to discuss was not a matter of state, as she had first thought, but a matter of family. She took one of the seats – directly in front of her father and Echirion took the one next to her. Lothiriel looked about and noticed something else: they were all looking at _her_. She was the only one with the expectant sheen over her features. She was the one that kept looking from her father to her brothers in turn. _She_ was the one out of the secret here.

As soon as the realization hit her, they all saw her face harden, her vulnerability buried somewhere deep beneath where it wouldn't hurt. Watching her steel herself so instinctively against whatever was to come, as if she was always prepared for the worst, was tantamount to watching her innocence die all over again. Finally, Lothiriel had grown. Out of their protective wings was the only way it could have happened.

"It seems this meeting is for me alone. I am listening father." She said when no words came from her father's lips. Even after, he stared at her with eyes that frightened her. The more his silence held, the vaster her terror grew. And when he did speak… her fear was proved right.

She learned of the ring and its bearer, the quest, the company, the true reason behind Boromir's death and all that happened after… and what needed to happen.

She got up with such speed that the chair was almost flung backwards. Nearly without control of herself, she started pacing, a thousand thoughts shooting through her mind, none of them making sense, none of them touching reason. They all watched her breathing speed up, watched as she brought her hands to her head, fastening her fingers on her temples as if the act would bring her better understanding. As if that could stop them shaking.

"You're all going to die…"

The whisper was not meant for them. It was as if Lothiriel was trying out the words, as if in her head they didn't make sense.

"Lothiriel…" Imrahil tried, but really, he did not know what to say and when her eyes, so enlarged and shiny, as if the tears were going to fall any moment, turned to meet his, the words died in his mouth.

Yes, they were going to die. What else could he say?

"Why?" she asked, coming towards them and Imrahil got up. "Why do I always have to stay behind?" And with every word her voice lost the helplessness, the anger growing in her eyes, in her movements.

"Sister…" Elphir tried, but she would not have it. She'd had enough of these _men_ telling her what to do, where to be, how to live and when to die.

" _No_! You don't get to talk me down. None of you know what it feels like to always, _always_ be the one who stays. To always be the one who loses… _everything_!" Her voice kept getting louder. Had she been closer to anything movable, she would have throwing it against the wall just for the pleasure of hearing it break.

"You think this is easy for us? This is what must be done for the sake of everything that is bigger and more important than our family alone. If there is a way to destroy the One Ring, we must take it, no matter how high the cost. All else is minor." Elphir tried, seeing that his father was not having an easy time with this. Their sister knew all too well how to hurt those who loved her. But in his voice there was the same coldness as in hers however, the same harshness. He knew that any softness he showed her now would only make her angrier. The only thing that parried his sister's fiercest moods were a fierce response, or she would overwhelm you. Unfortunately, Lothiriel had not much respect for those that could not stand up to her - something she had learned from their father all too well.

"Just think. Think of what will be accomplished if we succeed." Echirion also put in.

Lothiriel turned away from them all, feeling besieged by their cool good sense because unable to grasp at the threads of her own. She felt as if she was standing at the edge of a black precipice, the cold darkness of its depths staring her right in the face and giving a cold 'welcome back', just when she'd thought she had escaped it. She could not even gather her thoughts together or make sense of what they meant: only heard the words, not the meaning behind them and she could only pick those words apart and be angry at everything. The sense of abandon in her knew no reason, so sense. And the fear gobbled it all.

She had never been of the brave sort. She was of the cunning sort.

"' _Must'_ be done… men like that word, it's as if it gives you some kind of armour. You ride out and you don't have to give a second thought of what you leave behind. You think everything will mend itself after that, but it won't." and her desperation turned to anger, she almost growled at her brother. " _Nothing_ mends itself. Someone else mends if for you and you _think_ it mends itself! That is what my whole life has been: following after all of _you_ , cleaning up your messes and paying for your mistakes, unable even to make my own! Well, I am _tired_!"

"It doesn't matter, Lothi." Amrothos spoke for the first time, and if Lothiriel sounded strong enough to scream the palace down, he was the one who sounded and looked tired enough to fall over with a bare brush. "What I feel, what you feel; our wishes, your fears… None of this matters. All of it pales in comparison to the evil we are to face if we falter now. Our world will die if the Rings survives. All we know and love will perish. What would you do if you were any of us?"

His soft enquiry broke through to her and Lothiriel felt her shoulders sag with the knowledge that they were right, of course they were right. It was all true, it was what she would have done. What she would do, if she were but given the chance. But how, _how_ could that make it more bearable. There was no weight that was comparable to the bareness of solitude and knowing that she was going to die alone, without her family, without anyone… it frightened her beyond all understanding. She had not feared death for a long time now. What she feared was the desolation of a cold end. Why was she the only one that had to suffer through that?

"Why can't one of _you_ stay? Let one of your _sons_ stay to rule and I'll go in his stead!" and this time she turned to her father and that was not just an idle comment she made. Her anger scorched, her scorn burned.

But it was not her father that answered her.

"You want to go to the front? You're no shieldmaiden - you don't know how to fight, sister." Echirion said gently… but his sister had been past gentleness ten minutes ago.

She snorted, sneering in his face. "So? How is that of any difference? You're not going to the Black Gate to fight, you're going there to die!"

Imrahil stepped close to her, took her by the shoulders and for a moment it seemed that she would crumble right then – her face mirrored what was in her hear and the pain there took her father's breath away… but she pushed from his reach and the expression was gone. Hidden behind the hot mask of fury.

But Imrahil reached for her face, trapping it between his hands, bringing her forehead to his. "Yes. We are going there to die. So that you might live… and lead our people into days of peace."

The first of her tears fell, and his heart broke. Her anger he could take. He had been learning to manage his daughter in anger and spite for a long time. But her pain undid him.

"I don't want to lead. I _don't_ want to rule… I don't want to be left here alone."

It was a strangeness how no matter how tall she grew, how wise she became or how old… he always saw a little girl when he hugged her close to himself. As much of a child now as she'd been when she was five years old.

"Just let me come with you…" She whispered as in her father's chest and again Imrahil was surprised at himself – for being surprised. He should expected something like this from her. Nobody was more irrational than Lothiriel was when she was in pain.

He held her back from himself, making her look at him. "You think I would sell your life so cheap?"

The tears that ran down her face were of anger this time, not of pain. She pushed away from him, from them and her pacing began again, up and down the study.

"And you think my life is some precious thing to me? That I would trade everything for a few more years of… of _what_?" When she turned and looked at her father in the eye, her stare pinned him. "I was raised among _soldiers!_ I learned to die a long time ago."

The truth of her words rang so loud that there was no sane way it could be denied. She was born a woman, but there had never been much distinction in their upbringing and as all others that had lived in these years of darkness, Lothiriel too was familiar with death. As she said so aptly, she was raised among soldiers.

For the first time, Imrahil felt sorry for it. Regretted her strength and wished that she had a little more of the common in her, a little less of the fierce. That she loved life a little more than she did… and what a sad wish that was.

"I know. I know and that is a disservice we did you." Imrahil said slowly. "But you must learn to live now, for the sake of what is right. It is your duty to live, as it is our to die." and it was the truth, no matter how bad a choice of words it was. She would hate him for them, but they were words that had to be said. She was a Princes of her realm. She had to live… and lead.

"Duty, is it?" Lothiriel straightened and looked at her brothers in the eye, one by one. She felt calmer now. The dread that had taken her heart a moment ago was gone. Now she felt colder.

"Is _duty_ that keeps any you from staying, or even exchanging places with me? That is a lie: It would be easier for _any_ of you to keep Dol Amroth intact than it would be for me: at every turn my authority is challenged, I have to got o extremes just to have them respect me as much as they would a man, all the while with a hound in heat that snaps at my heels, snarling for marriage, looking at my dowry and at the very seat you want to burden me with."

She saw her brothers stiffen at her words, her father eyes darkening with ire that he held firmly under his control… and at the sight of it she felt better. Why should she be the only one to suffer?

"The truth is that you don't want to be left behind as much as I don't. Because it's easier to die than to live and try to hold things together. You call it duty… I call it cowardice." She spit out, unregretful, unforgiving. Gone was the red fury. What was left was deep emptiness.

Elphir was the first to react to her words, as usual. "How _dare_ you? Have you nothing of compassion left in you, sister? Has grief turned you heartless?"

Lothiriel was irritated, but not shaken by his words. She could not call her back from this precipice through indignation or offences.

"I dare everything. It is my prerogative to do so." She took two steps towards him, hissing in his face, startling him. "And if I have to suffer your insults again, I will show you _exactly_ what heartless means, brother!"

She then turned and walked to the door. "I need a moment to myself." She said curtly and opened the door.

"Lothiriel, we cannot dally. The Steward and the lords of the city are waiting for us." Her father reminded her.

But he did not sound like her father anymore – he sounded like Prince Imrahil now.

"Let them wait." The Princess of Dol Amroth responded imperiously, and slammed the door behind herself. The silence was such that the noise echoed.

Elphir sighed, and looked at his father to gauche his reaction. Imrahil looked ten years older than he usually appeared. Lothiriel always had this effect on him… and the most cruel thing was that she knew it. Elphir knew that his sister did not realize the depths of the guilt she prodded with her brutality, but she was at least _somewhat_ aware of how much hurt she caused, because the remorse she felt after her temper cooled was always immense.

"That went over well." Amrothos pointed out, just as Faramir opened the door that joined his study with the one they had been occupying.

Faramir sighed and leaned against the doorframe. "If that was well then I'd hate to see what she looks and sounds like when she takes news poorly."

Amrothos shrugged and put his feet up on the delicate looking round table in front of him. "The last time we all went away to battle, she was a lot louder and meaner. And she hit Elphir over the head with one of the vases – which I have to admit I enjoyed." Amrothos said blithely earning himself a glare from said brother.

"She'll be back in a few moments." Echirion assured. And he knew that she'd be back, as soon as she was finished crying in a corner where nobody could actually witness.

o

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o

TBC:::


	7. Before the blood wets the earth

****

**7**. _Before the blood wets the earth_

" _The kiss itself is immortal. It travels from lip to lip, century to century, from age to age. Men and women garner these kisses, offer them to others and then die in turn."_

_\- Guy de Maupassant -_

Eomer had been in the study with Faramir and Aragorn when the Princess came in, but when voices started to come through, he excused himself. And perhaps it was destiny that he should do so, because somewhat later, when she stormed out into the secluded gardens behind the palace, he was not too far away and he saw her. Even though the light of the palace barely reached this isolated spot, he did not need it to recognize the Princess of Dol Amroth. She was a shade of the night, a vision as dark as a moonless sky twinkled with of her black garb; her face, her throat, her hands shone pale and bloodless in the darkness of the gardens and she looked fierce and treacherous, like some heathen queen of old, something barely human. Etched on her face there was in turns such anguish that it could break even a stone heart, and anger so bright and hot that it could put the pits of Mount Doom to shame.

He kept his place wrapped in shadows and in silence and watched as she walked back and forth in the same isle of small stones, hands going into her hair so frequently that they became even messier, wilder. She seemed to be struggling to keep herself from crying: every moment that he thought she would break into tears, the raging anger came back distorting her face and distracting from pain.

It was then that, unexpectedly enough to make him jump a little, she took one of the decorative statues that looked so frail one dared not brush a finger against them, and hurled it against the closest wall with a shout. The stone broke in pieces that scattered as if afraid of her anger coming back for them. She took another, broke it against the pillar holding it, took those pieces and threw them across the courtyard with as much strength as she could. She grabbed another shard, with full intention of making it follow the previous, but then she yelped and let go of the jagged stone. Red blood stained her white hand and Eomer saw it accumulate in her palm and fall down her fingers in fat drops. He saw her face blank out of emotion for a moment and then watched on half in wonder half in fear as her knees gave out and she fell… just as two tears fell on her cheeks, sliding heavily to her chin and dripping down as more joined their fall. She cried so silently it was soundless, holding her hand in the other one, watching herself bleed. She did not try to cover the wound, tie it. She did not…

Eomer sucked a harsh breath. No, she had no intention of bandaging that cut. In fact, face pale and drawn into an expression that was hard as stone, the Princess passed her thumb over the cut, and there was no mistaking her action – she pushed down on the wound, making it bleed harder, hurt sharper. A tiny whimper found its way out of her lips.

He was kneeling by her, firmly (perhaps a little more than needed) grasping both her wrists and prying them apart before he had realized he was moving, or that he'd decided to go to her. He felt her startle in the way she trembled, retracted instinctively even though she was not capable of breaking his hold. Wide eyes found his and then she let go of the breath she'd been holding when recognition came as well. She did not object to his wrapping her palm in his handkerchief to stop the bleeding, did not even move as he did so, just looked at him, as he looked at her hand. He could feel her eyes on him, feel the weight of her frown.

"You're going too, aren't you?"

He did not need to reply – hers wasn't really a question. The answer was already there in the resignation of her tone. So was her opinion of it, in the soft scoff she gave afterwards.

"… Of course you are."

He looked at her then only to find dull eyes staring back at him, a smile so humourless curving her lips that looked like a grimace because it did not brush her eyes that were left flat, dark and wide.

"May the gods be so kind as to protect the rest of us from honourable men." The Princess deadpanned, that hollow expression as if carved on her face. How ill it suited her. She looked like a skull into which life had been breathed if only for a moment. She looked as if... as if all life had abandoned her. Her eyes were staring somewhere far away, somewhere he could not see.

"What point is there to life, if I feel already dead?" her words were whispers so soft he barely caught them, even standing so close. It did not seem as if she was asking him, as if she needed answers. Indeed she did not seem to want them for she seemed as if was as not even there with him anymore… But _he_ was there. He felt her frail wrists in his hands and he could keep his peace no longer. Eomer tugged her wrists forward, the motion bringing her eyes back to him and back into focus, on him.

"Listen to me, and listen well. You're not dead, you're alive and warm and strong and you live of a life that is your own. You need nobody's permission to live and nobody else should decide how you die. You should give no one that kind of power over you!"

But it was as if only some of his words filtered through to him, and in her mind they created patterns of their own. she was not even looking at him – it felt as if her eyes were staring straight through him.

"Everyone says that to me: that I'm strong. Not righteous, or fair, or loved. Strength seems to be my worth… perhaps they're just too afraid to call me cruel."

She was trying so hard it seemed not to cry, and yet more tears came down her face and it was strange how she could weep that way, her face so unchanging, unflinching. It was like watching a marble statue weep.

"I hate the whole world sometimes – that is how strong I am. The whole world and myself in it… But I grow so tired of being strong."

Her tears fell in silence and stillness and Eomer felt as if something inside him was tearing at the sight of her so raw and defenceless. It was as if the curtain had rolled back and that hidden secret she seemed to have, the very thing that had seemed to him so alluring and seducing in the firelight, was now discovered. And _this_ was it: behind all that she chose to show, all her charm and flirt and wit, there was her every fear and insecurity. And darkness. Yes, there was darkness in her... he had seen that, sensed it perhaps from the very first moment he met her. It gave her every look a shaper edge, a burning flare. It was eating her from the inside this very moment and Eomer felt as if the helplessness that was biting at him would drive him to madness within moments if he did not _do_ something. The sight of her so suffering was making him want to scream when in truth, all he wanted, all he ached for was to gather her close until the heat of his bones could seep into her and make her stop hurting. The desire was so acute his arms were practically aching with the effort it took to keep from wrapping them around her.

It was then that in one ruthlessly concentrated instant, the most acute swell of emotions he had ever felt took him, so strongly and swiftly that he thought the anguish of it would cut his heart asunder.

The feeling pressed down on him, submerging him into the darkest depths of his being and at the same time pulling so clearly at the very centre of his soul, with a power he had no strength (or will) to resist. The pain he felt was one he had never felt before, a bittersweet sting that took his breath away, that ached in the centre of his heart - burning, consuming, violently unmaking him and putting him pack together. The fast whirlwind of so acute a feeling shook him like nothing else, cut through him like a thunderstorm and at once it cleared out the smoke of uncertainty and he felt the cold shivers of realization racing down his spine. Everything was clear. It all made sense and suddenly the terrible anguish that had just now twisted his heart took a name and a meaning, and once he realized it, it was impossible not to succumb to it, not to speak it, breathlessly, as if he had not the courage to speak louder.

"Lothiriel..."

But this time, his softly saying her name shook her more than when he'd pulled at her wrists sharply to get her attention. She looked at him, cleanly putting him into focus for the first time it seemed, those eyes of hers setting on him and the frown pulling at her brows. What she saw in his face didn't please her. She pulled her hands away from his grip and he let her. Watched as her breathing sped up as she searched his features with unsettling insistence.

"Do you think me a fool?" She hissed in the night, pain forgotten, anger starting to sip through. Eomer could only shake his head at her, not understanding what she meant. But that only made her frown harder. Or perhaps it was the look in his face as he did so. He hid nothing from her, he knew she could read his emotions in his eyes as if he had spoken them aloud.

He wanted her to know. But apparently he had misjudged her reaction. The princess got on her feel in a graceless scramble and took a step away from him.

"Do you think me mad enough to waste pieces of my heart on dead men? That I would be as suicidal as you?"

He gave her no answer, even though the sting of rejection was sharp and bitter in him. And yet it was so strange that she said one thing while her eyes told him another.

 _Yes_ , he though, _you are just mad enough_...

But she caught that thought of his just as if flashed by his eyes and she hated him for his presumption, for his arrogance. She hated him, period. She would have slapped him too, her hand tinkled with the desire to do so. She would have, had he not been king. But since he was, she simply threw him a scathing look and turned to leave... without anticipating that he would not simply just let her go that way. Perhaps she was too used to always having her own way.

But in truth Eomer did not care that she was a Princess and that if she wanted to walk from him it was her right to do so. In that moment, she was nothing short of her own self and she was right in her rebellion, he was not about to let her slip through his fingers, he could not. A gaping wound of the flesh did not even hold a candle to the pain he felt seeing her walk away from him in such anger and hurt.

He caught her by the forearm, keeping hold of her as he would hold a small bird in his hands: gently for fear of breaking her - because Lothiriel's flesh and bone under his fingers felt just as frail as a small bird, and just as restless - but firmly, with no intention of allowing escape. He was prepared for her resistance: she turned blazing eyes to him and demanded in a tone that could only belong to a Princess, that he ' _unhand her at once'._ When he didn't, she kicked at him with vehemence, meaning to hurt him, wishing she could. But her tiny fist, her sharp elbows and the feet stumping his boots were nothing in comparison to what he was accustomed to. The ease with which he trapped both her arms and pulled her, still flailing, against himself until her back met his chest, made Eomer realized how much strength he really held over her, how easily he could hurt her, put bruises on her skin, just by holding on a little too tightly. She felt so small to him then, so frail, not even a third of his size... and he knew that he would give anything for her, anything at all. He would give his life gladly, just so that she could live. He felt it with a perfect clarity that lent him a calm he had never felt before - calm that was in stark contrast with the way she kept resisting his hold, even thought her strength was waning.

"Let me go, you _brute_! I swear I'll scream this place down!"

But instead he released one of her wrists and put a hand to the side of her face gently, so at odds with her writhing, scorching anger.

"I'm so sorry Lothiriel. I'm so very sorry, for everything that cannot be." He whispered close to her ear, because he had folded himself around her without really meaning to, without even realizing that he had moved to hold her and not restrain her anymore, until she was wrapped in his arms and his forehead was almost resting on her shoulder.

At his words Lothiriel stilled so instantly that she could have been a marble statue. She was so quiet that Eomer felt the coldness of rejection starting to gnaw at his heart, but then he felt a shudder go through him, and realized he was feeling her shaking, the sobs she was hiding... until she dropped her head back against this shoulder as if she could not hold it up anymore.

She let go then – he felt the resistance leave her... and broke open, right there in his arms. If he'd thought she had been crying before, that was because he had not known any better. Now – it was _now_ that she was truly crying.

Eomer had never heard anyone cry that way, as if the word was ending, as if all hope was gone and all that was good in the world forgotten... and his heart broke for her in such tiny pieces that he thought he would never feel whole again.

She wept in great sobs that shook her whole frame and if it hadn't been for the arms he still held around her, Eomer knew she would have fallen to her knees. He turned her around and wrapped her in his chest, held on tightly, letting her cry and soothing a hand up and down her spine. He felt her fingers fist at his sides, pulling at his shirt so hard it might rip. Felt her tears wet his shoulder, warm and heavy. She cried for so long it felt like forever, and the night grew darker and the torchlight faded. Eomer held her through it, held her as he felt her sobs soften and grown faint, and as her shaking stopped to the occasional shiver. He waited until her breathing went back to normal and her fingers remembered how to untangle themselves from fabric... and even then he did not let go.

It was the long fingers that curled on his arm that made him loosen his grip on her. Lothiriel did not move away, she only angled her head just enough to look at him. She looked a mess, the dark kohl of her eyes smudged all around her lids, tracing messy patterns down her cheeks. In the darkness of the night her face looked as pale as the moon, her eyes as dark as infinite pools of midnight. She kept blinking, as if she could not quite focus on him. And still, she searched his face, as if the answer to her every question could be found in his features.

Eomer held no answers for her. He was, like every man, bound to his fate and his duty. He could not give her any relief from the pain she felt, any more than he could ease his own hurt. But that did not stop his hands from finding her face, just as hers found purchase on his chest, gripping, as if she expected to fall over at any moment. He pushed away the hair that had stuck to her face, smoothing the silky curls back, wiped her tears with his fingers, ran his thumb under her eyes, over her lips, tracing every feature as if he was engraving her likeness into his memory by touch. Her lower lip trembled and she bit it to stop it, just as fresh tears shone in her eyes without falling.

Lothiriel brought her own hand up to keep his in place at her cheek and then turned her head to the side to kiss the centre of his palm.

Behind the tender feeling that in that moment gave life to her eyes once more, there was also anger, aimless and strong - Eomer felt it when helplessly, her fingers twisted his shirt, her nails scratching his skin through the material. She was raging from within, and yet the only sign was a whisper of nails against his sides, a tiny frown on her face…

Lothiriel drew a deep breath and then exhaled, and just as simply as that, she was again the woman she had always been before him. She stepped away from his arms and he let her go, feeling his palms tingle and his heart ache at having lost her. It was as if his arms had always belonged to her and she between them, and Eomer had only learned it now. Once she stepped away, his arms dropped to his sides as if they had forgotten their purpose. When Lothiriel looked at him, she seemed to have gathered the pieces of herself but was having trouble at putting them together again: it was as if she could not seem to remember what went where, and the mess showed in a clash of conflicting feelings in her eyes. The Princess took another deep breath and the resolute set of her countenance made her appear strong. It felt as if she had made up her mind about something that was as important to her as life itself.

"I am going to say goodbye to you now." She said, and her voice was firm though deeper and rougher than usual thanks to her tears. "I'm going to say goodbye to you in my way, because this is all I will ever have of you, or you of me."

Eomer felt the weight of his frown on his face and the crumble of his heart in his chest. He had known this had to happen. Even the most bittersweet moments do not last forever. But then, when he thought he would rather rip his heart from his chest than have it hurt so much, again she surprised him. In a moment, her arms were around his neck and her breath on his face and her lips, _oh her lips_ , on his, a press so warm she felt feverish and so alive, that he almost gasped at the so immediate feel of her.

The shock disappeared slowly - his mind just kept falling into deeper mist of dizziness and thick floods of passion, but his body knew its own desires. He tasted passion. He tasted emotion. He tasted a world he'd never imagined, one he could never enter. It was right there in front of him, suddenly open to him. Unexpected and exciting. His arms wrapped around her shape in an instant, almost lifting her off her feet as his hand went to the back of her neck, filling with her hair and pulling her face closer. She kissed him with a determination that was unstoppable, with a fire that could not be resisted, arrested. He could only surrender, open himself up to her and let her take everything she wanted. But he was unprepared for the feelings that shook him… or how it became so easy to imagine he had been kissing her lips his whole life; that hers was a face he had known for years, that they had a life and she was his and he was hers and it was all it mattered. It was easy to pretend because that was the way she kissed: as if she knew him and they had something between them no two people had ever shared before. it was a fiction born from true passion. It was, in its own way, the spark of love between them, ever brighter because it would never be more than this.

There was a strange sort of violence in his reaction the very first moment he felt the warm slide of her tongue in his mouth. It clashed with the feelings pulling at his chest, so warm and all-consuming. His head swam and he lost all purchase with the world, but his arms tightened around her, pulling her body so close there was not room even for air between them. He could not keep himself from wanting to take control of her mouth, her kiss. Everything he had within him urged him to devour... and yet he held her head delicately, despite the strength in his arms or their tight hold over her. He held her carefully even then because the lean neck beneath his palm, her tiny waist, the very feel of her against him was of something easily breakable. He felt the power in his own limbs as clearly as he felt the frailty in hers in comparison. Sensation was all he knew, _Lothiriel_ , it was all he ever wanted to know. And the urgency of a kiss that was _everything_ , love and passion, the tenderness of a lifetime within the searing urgency of a moment. They came apart and came together too many times, and each time felt long as an age and so short that the fierceness enclosed in it burned them both.

He kissed her face, followed the line of her jaw to her soft throat, to every inch of her chest that those two unfastened buttons of her shirt allowed, while his hands took in all of her hungrily, greedily, all sense forgotten… he hid his moans against the crook of her neck, drunk on her warm scent, seared his lips on the delicate skin under her ear until she writhed in his arms and dug her nails on his shoulders, his name leaving her lips in a breathless plea right against this ear, that made every inch of him tighten and condense with the need for more, for _everything_ and with every kiss, every touch, he needed her more.

How long did they stand there? The night seemed to have stretched for them, grown long and deep, just to give them this.

Slowly, so very slowly, their frenzy died down and their kisses lingered, slowed until their lips were barely brushing anymore and they were breathing off each other. His lids felt so very heavy that Eomer could only be bothered to open them enough to see her face so very close to his. He had wrapped both his arms around her waist now and held her, one hand tracing the curve of her spine up to her shoulder, her throat, the delicate collarbones just beneath the lapels of her shirt and the small hollow between them. He touched her and every sensation, every feeling was burned in his memory forever: the feel of her body, the taste of her mouth, of the heady scent of her skin…

But mostly he kept still and curved over her a little, as her hands kept tracing his arms, his shoulders, and then up his neck, to his face and his hair, filling her hand with them, occasionally scratching her nails lightly against this scalp. So gently her fingers traced his features, his wide forehead, his lids and cheekbones, his lips, a gentle caress that burned. And everywhere her fingers went, her soft lips followed, and Eomer bend his face closer, so that she could reach all of him, so that she could do whatever she wanted. It was tenderness so deep, that it hurt. A touch of what life could have been for both, something that neither would ever have… and perhaps that was why it hurt most, even now.

At last, she left a kiss on his chin, and moved up to his lips, so gently and softly she placed another kiss there, as if it was her place of worship, and when Eomer reached out to kiss her back, drunk on her and needing more, her fingers came against his mouth to stop him... so he kissed those instead. Lothiriel sighed and her hands went to take his, untangling them from her waist. She laced her fingers with his, just as their eyes met and foreheads rested against each other. She looked at him in such a way that it made him feel as if he was looking directly into her very soul and what he saw there seared his heart as if it had been touched by fire. The very air in his lungs felt aflame in that moment.

Lothiriel brought both his hands up and, in a gesture that was becoming familiar, kissed the back of his fingers. Did so deliberately, slowly, her breath whispering on his skin as she took a inhaled and released the air from her lungs. It had been their first greeting, she thought it fitting that it should be their last.

Or perhaps she just wanted to kiss him...

She did not say anything, did not even look at him… only let go abruptly and was half across the courtyard before Eomer had even realized that she had gone from him. She moved silently, one with the shadows the night. She went away, disappearing through a side door into the great hall of Munduburg as if she could not run away fast enough… and he still stood there, leaning against that wall and feeling too much.

He let her go because there was no other way. Where his heart had been, now there was something else, both more and less than before. She had taken from him more than he had ever thought he could possibly give, and she had given back something precious. He could feel the weight of it in his breast, just beneath his heart, pulsing there with warm raw life. If this was the last taste of life he would ever have, it was the best memory he could have hoped for, and that too was alright. It was more than he would have had if

But what Eomer could not possibly imagine, was that she had left her heart in his hands with that kiss. For what good was a heart, if turning it to stone was the only way to survive? Lothiriel knew what she was going to go back to in Dol Amroth, who awaited her there: she would not be needing her heart for that… or him. So Lothiriel had renounced it with that kiss: the last gesture she would do with any feeling. And what better keeper than the King of the Mark? _Eomer_ … she repeated his name in her head. Yes, Eomer. He would keep her heart safe. It would be a comfort to think that she would not lose that piece of herself, that she had simply given it away before it could be mangled.

And if Eomer had to die, let him take her heart with him, so at least he wouldn't go alone. Yes, she could trust him with her heart… she felt she could trust him with her very soul, even if he did not know he was its keeper. And it was better this way, that he did not know.

Because in the end, what difference did it make?

o

" _O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest,_  
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars  
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!  
Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you  
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss  
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!"

_\- William Shakespeare -_

_o_

o

o

TBC:::


	8. Unwilling to go, unable to stay…

_**8** _ _. Unwilling to go, unable to stay…_

_"Now hollow fires burn out to black,_   
_And lights are fluttering low:_   
_Square your shoulders, lift your pack_   
_And leave your friends and go._   
_O never fear, lads, naught's to dread,_   
_Look not left nor right:_   
_In all the endless road you tread_   
_There's nothing but the night."_

_A.E. Housman_

Lothiriel took a deep breath and the air of the sea filled her lungs. She was standing on deck of the Warrior, the fastest of her father's warships as they made their way down south along with almost 45 other ships at their tail. They had been travelling for more than a day. Only hours ago they left the shores of waters of the Anduin and finally sailed into the open sea; the coast of Dol Amroth was still another two days away. Time, it seemed, crawled when one was anxious… But to compensate, the horizon was clear, the wind favourable and the sea smooth and vast in front of her in all its serene majesty - the sun was slowly setting it aflame as it sank lower in the sky. It was a sight that should inspire her of beauty and peace, and yet every part of her being was turned back, towards where she came from. Northwards fled her mind, where she had left all that she had ever loved and her heart also. If she allowed herself to dwell on it, she could feel the terrible ache of its missing in her chest.

If she allowed herself, she could feel the many shades of despair, each stemming from a different memory: the last words she has spoken to her family, saying goodbye to them, one by one. Forbidding herself from numbing it out had almost destroyed her, but she would not allow her self-preservation to keep her from her brothers, her father, not if it was the last time she saw them living. Lothiriel remembered the last hug she had given each of them. The way they had held her, as if they would never ever let go… and yet one by one they had done just that, and somehow she had let them slip through her fingers.

She closed her eyes as the wind beat against her face, and allowed her mind to calm, to open doors that had been left close for the past 2 days… and _he_ rushed in like blinding sunlight, shoving away the grief and pain and fear, if only for a moment.

The Princess allowed herself to remember how she had felt after that kiss she'd given so freely: disconnected, barely able to feel her own body, as if she was standing six inches behind herself and watching a hand that did not belong to her shake. Remembered the way he kissed and how it felt to be kissed by him; the gentleness of his touch so different from the relentless hold of his arms; the rasp of his beard against her skin so unlike the softness of his lips down her throat - even now, in the cold wind of the sea, she could feel the burn of those lips. And how afraid she had been after, because she had not known how to hide their mark. But that was the way of true kisses: one never knew their nature until they burned and none knew how to give them or take them or hide them… And so Lothiriel had felt as if everyone who saw her was going to know exactly what happened and they would even be able to trace the patters that his lips had followed. Such nonsense really… a dash of cold water had been all it took to bring her face to its usual paleness.

Without meaning to her mind went back again to what had happened after she had joined her father and the Steward almost an hour later after she had gone to find solitude (and found the King of Rohan instead). Unbelievable as it may sound, the night had gotten even more complicated then…

oOo

When the door was opened and she walked through it at her father's arm, Eomer thought for a moment that he did not recognize her. It was the same face staring back at him, and yet she seemed so different from the woman he had had in his arms not even an hour ago. She was pale and cold now, not bubbling with irrepressible fury. Her face set as if she was carved out of stone, her eyes flat, unreadable, unreachable… more the distant Princess than he'd ever seen her. It stung that her eyes skimmed over him with the same evenness they would skim upon a stranger.

She curtsied in front of the company and Eomer, Aragorn and Gandalf responded with a bow of their heads, Faramir limiting himself to offering her a small smile… one that his cousin did not return. She walked to the chair offered to her and sat with her back straight, her face blank, waiting to be spoken to. Faramir cleared his throat and she looked at him impassively, expecting to hear whatever the Steward needed from the Princess of Dol Amroth.

"Cousin, as Steward of Gondor after my father, I have a request to make of you." Faramir started.

"I am bound to your service, my lord." Lothiriel said without the smallest hesitation and Faramir resisted the urge to smile. She gave such a good impersonation of what it was to be a Princess. Out of all his cousin's, Lothiriel was the one whose mind was most attuned to the nature of politics. She understood the rules and did not fear the game, however disreputable, dark or violent. The only problem was that she hated it.

"I charge you, Princess, with manning all the Black Sails that now rest idle on the shores of the Anduin. They are to return to Dol Amroth and become part of your city's fleet. From there you will be able to defend the south of our realm from any attacks from the sea. What say you?"

"I submit to the will of Gondor." The Princess said readily with a tiny bow of her head. Her eyes were expressionless and her tone so smooth and flat that though he knew his cousin well, Faramir had no way of knowing what her thoughts truly were.

"Cousin, I would have your true opinion on the matter."

The Princess eyed Faramir for a moment, the shrewdness of her eyes now even more apparent, with her face set in such a severe expression. Her unwavering gaze would have been unnerving to anyone not used to such sharp scrutiny. But Faramir knew his cousin well enough not to take it personally.

"How many ships?" She asked frankly.

"Fifty, here in the Harlond alone. There are more up the Anduin." And this time it was Lord Aragorn that answered her and she had to turn to look at him. "All in all, I think they were about a hundred."

They saw her nod imperceptibly as she added figures in her mind.

"I will leave a regiment for you to take back to Dol Amroth, sail the ships into open sea and into port. By the size of the vessels, ten men per ship can suffice to manoeuvre them." Imrahil said and Faramir saw his cousin nod her head, but it was elsewhere that her thoughts gathered. It was almost imperceptible, but a smile grazed her lips for the first time and Faramir caught the secretive expression.

"And you'll be able to send Deonvan back to Tolfalas. You won't need his fleet anymore." Faramir added and that made the Princess look up at him.

They were sharing the same thoughts it seemed.

"And while we're at the subject of your betrothed, I have something else in mind." Faramir added, leaning forward. Imrahil tensed but said nothing. Lothiriel only looked at her cousin with a tiny frown to express her doubt – which was smoothed away immediately.

She was relentless tonight. Faramir had expected anger – which in Lothiriel took a very cold lethal form, but this was a little more hardness than even he had anticipated.

"I mean to release you from the engagement with Lord Deonvan of house Targil." Faramir declared.

As soon as the few first words came out of the steward's mouth, Eomer saw the princess bristle. Her eyes widened and for a moment her breathing stopped.

"The reason I am breaking this betrothal is because it should never have been made in the first place." The Steward continued, his eyes softening as he looked at his cousin, as he saw how shocked these words were leaving her. "And if Deonvan requires legal grounds, there are plenty. He has not kept his promise to Gondor: despite his word, Harad still came north and waged war on our people. He failed on the purpose he was commissioned for and without his political influence, he is rudimentary, so I see no reason for the only Princess of Gondor to be bound to him any longer."

Faramir watched his cousin closely as he spoke. Apart from the initial shock, he had expected at least some sort of surprise from her, some disbelief. In truth he did not know what he had expected, but the almost immediate comprehension that sharpened the look in her eyes, that calm (almost eerie, actually) acceptance on her face was certainly _not_ it. A smile curved the corner of her mouth and Faramir recognised the expression immediately - it reflected bitter thoughts and there was a strange glint in her eyes one that promised nothing good.

Faramir felt suddenly foolish. Of course he'd been wrong in thinking he knew how she'd react. It was ironical, but perfectly consistent, that Lothiriel would prove to be, even on this, as predictably unpredictable as she'd always been.

"And of course, you don't want him to get his hands on Dol Amroth through me, since I'll soon be sole heir." Lothiriel said candidly and Faramir tried not to wince. For a lady of her standing, it was indecorous to be so blunt, but it did not look as if Lothiriel cared much about that for the moment… nor had she really, on any other moment. Lady or not, they were discussing political tactics and among themselves they needed to be clear and blunt if need be. The truth was that Lothiriel's frankness was shocking only because in the end, she was the only woman among them, and bluntness from her lips tasted differently… though perhaps it should not, since she had been one to redefine that word over and over again through her life.

In truth, Faramir thought Lothiriel delighted a little in making everyone uncomfortable by saying what others deemed not appropriate to speak aloud. It had always been her means of reclaiming her identity in the eyes of those that liked to think they could command her: she stepped out of anyone's control by consciously doing exactly what she should _not_ be doing – or saying.

What control was she seeking to reclaim now? Faramir could hardly comprehend her reasons. But then he took a closer look in his cousin's face… and saw deep regret there, and a strange resignation.

"Not that I don't share your opinion, but unfortunately I have made some choices these past few months that are going to make this course of action potentially… problematic." Lothiriel said as evenly as she could manage.

The silence in the room did not stretch for long.

"If you're referring to the fact that he has helped on the defences of the south of Dol Amroth, then that is of no consequence. All the lords were asked to do their part; Deonvan certainly does not deserve celebration for fulfilling his sworn duty." Her father reasoned with a hint of anger that was so well hidden that only those who knew him well could sense it.

"Gondor does not fear the loss of him as an ally either." the calmness in Lord Aragorn's voice was reassuring and so was the look in his eyes. "Even if he were to go south and try to rally the Haradrim for war again, he would fail. They have no ships, no army and no king. The emissaries of peace are already making their way to Minas Tirith."

Lord Aragorn kept on and listening to him, everything felt so clear and simple… and yet Lothiriel knew they were wrong this time: because of her actions, Deonvan did not _need_ to threaten her with an army. He was close enough to do harm in other ways now, and he would do anything to secure his prospects now that all he had ever wanted was so unexpectedly close to his reach. Lothiriel had lived for too long close to the nature of the man she was to wed: she knew him better than all those that claimed to hate him. She knew he had no limits. So this time, when she started speaking, she willed her voice to be steady.

"That is undoubtedly so, my lord, but…there are ten of his warships anchored in Dol Amroth as we speak, and another fifty watching the seas of the far south. He has two thousand of his men patrolling the southern borders, protecting the cities from outside the keeps, keeping safe the villagers that could not move behind the safety of high walls…"

She saw the realization settle in the faces of all present as they understood how fully Deonvan's influence had stretched… and she felt shame. Lothiriel cursed her own idiocy. How had she made such a mistake: invited the wolf at her own house? But reality at the time had been unbending: she had not had enough men to keep the inlands safe on her own and not enough ships to front an attack from the fleet of the Black Sails, if they decided to wage war. She had needed Deonvan's help - and now he held her in his fist. The Princess looked to her father and there was such regret in her eyes, an apology that refused to be spoken.

"I had to have his help. It was either that or let the south burn… There was no other way."

And all the while, she refused to say the words _'I'm sorry'_. Not for pride, but because it was useless. Regret would not reverse her actions, nor would she alter them even if she could. She had done what need to be done in a hopeless situations, after having exhausted every other alternative. These were simply the consequences – and they were far less grave if she had chosen to act differently. However, this too needed her full seriousness and commitment. She needed to make herself understood first.

"So you see, my lords. I have allowed him too close. And Deonvan is not the kind of man to simply withdraw a helping hand if he is thwarted. If the engagement that ties him to Gondor and to me is to be broken, I am certain he will retaliate and with an enemy so far behind our lines, we would lose too much before he is stopped." Lothiriel finally said, first looking up at her father unflinchingly, facing her choices, and then the cool grey of Lord Aragorn's. "He cannot wage war against Dol Amroth, but what destruction could he cause in the mean time? How am I to avoid it if not with the promise of marriage?"

But her question was met with silence.

"I positively loath the way you fear him so, Lothiriel. You always have." Faramir finally said, losing his ever present composure if only a little. It was not because of his cousin that he grew nervous, but because it scratched his ever-cool temper to see such a proud and fierce being as Lothiriel turned into a pile of hesitation and mistrust when it came to her thrice accursed betrothed.

But on the other hand, it was perhaps the wrongest thing to say…

Lothiriel turned flashing eyes to him, spared him the politeness that decorum demanded because Faramir, as her brothers, seemed doomed never to understand the nature of her feelings.

"You are free to resent my feelings cousin, but I wish that maybe just once, you'd strive to understand them." The princess said coldly… and then her voice took a steely note that made it echo across the silent room like a scream, even though she had not raised her voice at all. "I _fear_ him, because I _know_ him: Deonvan would burn the whole world to the ground if that would make him king of the ashes!3"

Lothiriel took a deep breath, reminding herself in whose presence she was – a thing that she tended to forget too often after a lifetime of being the highest ranking person in any room. She needed to remember she was not just a pretty face anymore: she was the true ruler of her country and she sat now with men who expected her to think and behave as such - and not as a hot-tempered socialite throwing a tantrum. Lothiriel was now what she had always wanted to be… but it was proving to be so much harder than she had ever imagined.

Her tone was much more even when she spoke again. "What am I to do if he orders his men in the south to pillage every village, kill everyone in their path as a revenge to being slighted. Don't look at me that way father, you and I both know he is capable of every savagery he deems fit." She added then, this time much more calmly.

Imrahil did not contradict his daughter. He too knew the nature of Deonvan of house Targil. It was true what his daughter said and it seemed that Deonvan had very cunningly woven his net around his daughter, taking advantage of her weakness and setting a trap in the mean time. Imrahil knew enough of the other man's intellect to know that the move had been a deliberate one. The lord of Tolfalas knew that Lothiriel would never willingly marry him, betrothal or not, Steward commanding or not. His daughter had made it clear; so had her father, with his unwillingness to set a date for the marriage; so had her brothers with their unrelenting vigilance over their sister, never allowing her and her betrothed alone in the same room. Oh yes, his daughter was right: they had to tread carefully, especially now that Deonvan was so intricately woven through the inner defences of Dol Amroth. But Faramir was right over one thing: Lothiriel was wrong to fear him. By doing so she was granting him the kind of power Deonvan did not necessarily have.

The silence that settled in the room was not broken for several moments, but then the Istar spoke and Lothiriel looked at him, startled.

"My Lady Princess…" He called, and Lothiriel, drawing her attention. He looked upon her kindly with eyes that sparkled with knowledge and wit… and the mystery of the timeless stars. "I am sure you realize that such a man can never be given the kind of power he would get through you, were you to become his bride. What you need… is _time_. Time to rearrange your defences and keep him out of them." The Istar said empathetically, lowering his head to look at her closely.

"Time I don't have." Lothiriel countered weakly, and Mithrandir saw the desperation behind the calmness, the fear underneath the hardness. The Princess was looking at him for a solution she could not see and Lothiriel dearly hoped that his astuteness was as legendary as myth would have it, because she felt would need every bit of help she could get.

oOo

"Your highness…"

Lothiriel was wrenched out of her reverie by that call. The sun was half into the sea and Lothiriel realized that she had been caught in her own thoughts for quite a while… Looking up at her was the young face of Gaeldir, the thirteen year old son of her commander, Galahad.

"Father bids me to tell you that we just passed Ferir's Crossing and that if the weather holds, we should be in Dol Amroth by this time tomorrow." The boy said, giving her an awkward bow.

Lothiriel smiled. " _'Warrior'_ has lived up to her reputation then." She said softly and the boy grinned.

"She is the fastest ship of the these seas your highness." Gaeldir said, such pride in his voice.

"Indeed she is. Thank you Gaeldir." Lothiriel gave the boy a smile and the youth blushed a little under his tan. He ran half across deck before she had even taken five steps towards her cabin.

Lothiriel sighed. With every passing moment, the end of this tale came closer. She could sense it. Things were in motion now and the whole momentum of her circumstances seemed to propel her forward. There would be no more chances to look back, there was nowhere to go but onwards, into whatever it was that waited for her. She knew that if she dared think for too long on what she had left behind, she would be lost to it and that could _not_ happen. What she had to do, Lothiriel realized, was to teach herself not to feel. Sometimes that was the only solution left – this was one of those times.

With that thought, she closed the lid on her reverie and turned to the present fully… and as she turned to walk back into her cabin, Lothiriel caught sight of Aron on deck, moving uneasily between the sailors and she could not help a small smile. It was so obvious that he had never set foot on a ship this large before.

Aron was one of Faramir's rangers, commissioned by her cousin to be her bodyguard, at Lothiriel's specific request. A killer was what she had wanted. A man who looked like one at least, and that could think like one. A man that would be able to scare whoever may think of hurting her before even drawing blade. Aaron fit the description perfectly. The ranger had a cold, impassive face and calculating eyes that missed nothing. Tall and of a strong, lean build he was and his hands looked like they could crush a man's skull in an instant. But what was most immediate about him was not his size or the way he moved as silently as a shadow despite it, but that angry scar that cut diagonally across his face. It started at the left side of his forehead, ran down between his eyes, cutting the bridge of his nose and across his cheek, ending at the right side of his jaw. There were the tendrils of a nasty burn charring the skin of his right temple too, and all in all, he made for a frightening sight – and Lothiriel had been glad of it. She did not fear him either: Faramir felt he could trust this man with her life as he had trusted him with his own, and that was why Lothiriel had decided she would trust him also.

Finding her second man had been a little more difficult, because she wanted a deception in her second man. She had wanted him to be the kind of man whose looks would be taken for granted, that would never convince the eye for a capable warrior… but that would be able to cut five men to ribbons if he had to.

Lothiriel could still see the look in the eyes of the King of the Mark when he had spoken.

"I think you will find such a man among the sons of Eorl." He had said as is eyes held hers firmly, the look in them smouldering. He did not hesitate to volunteer his help, but from the look of him, he did not like it in the least what her request implied. Lothiriel had a feeling that, had it been up to the King of the Mark, he would not had let her go back where duty called her, if danger was the only thing that waited her there.

It was good then, Lothiriel had surmised, that it was not up to him. The mere _idea_ of being so dominated upon prickled a part of her that resented any kind of control (and inevitably submission) - even his. Because even though Eomer King, Lord of the Mark seemed to throw her in turmoil every time he so much as looked at her, he was still a man and Lothiriel resented him for that in some corner of her being. Not for being a man, but for being so frowned upon by him and all his kind for showing the same obliviousness to danger that they – _all_ of the men in her life – displayed.

What kind of rules did they think she could live by, if not those of people she admired? It was not a fault of hers, or anyone's, that she had lived her life among men and thus, they had been the only ones to be admired. How would Lothiriel be able to love herself, if she would not be allowed to follow the example of those she deemed the epitome of all that was good? All her life Lothiriel had been told to admire the brave and the good and the strong but every prerogative of her sex seemed to build towards a different constitution. Words were turned around for women, as if in a mirror: you were good through obedience, brave through submissiveness, strong through endurance.

And perhaps it was so: women's lives were hard in their own way, for they consisted of dealing mainly with men, but still… Was courage only displayed through strength of arms? Were men the only ones allowed to display it? Was it unseemly in women? Did valour and bravery turn into ridiculousness, into an empty jest, in one such as Lothiriel, because she could not back them with the swing of a sword?

Lothiriel sighed and shook her head. She had felt such rebellious anger contemplating these thoughts, but now she realized it was useless. Those were questions that did not need answers, because those answers would not determine anything. Things had already been determined for them all by fate and their own choices, and in her current position, Lothiriel found permissions and approvals were wasted: her duty was imperative and inevitable, and what the men in her life thought of the way she chose to face it was of no consequence anymore. Courage may be more seemly perhaps, if accompanied by a strong arm, but it was not less of a reality when steel and muscle was lacking. Denying it would be as effective as denying that all things that go up must, at one point or another, come down. And a woman's courage was the sharp rock these objects broke upon: inevitably there, despite how much one would wish it otherwise.

e.l.e.l.e.e.l.e.l.

Gamlin had reached the conclusion that he, without a doubt, liked sailing. He had always liked fishing well enough as the next man and had even sailed down the Entwash once or twice… but nothing could have prepared him for what it was so be on a warship such as the one he was in now. Or what it meant to look upon the vastness, the greatness of the sea. Such an expanse of water he had never seen, not even in the West Mark which was so rich in lakes and waterfalls. It was infinite, this deep blue sea, stretching as far as his eye reached. It reminded him of the grass fields of Rohan, yet there was something of the mystic and the dangerous in this sight before him, something beyond the understanding of the mind. It was strangely thrilling to be surrounded by so much water, to look on far before you and see no horizon to mark an end, because the sky in the distance merged with the sea and you could not tell one from the other. It felt like you could sail on into the heavens from there.

But sea and sky was not all he saw. He also saw the Princess of Dol Amroth, under whose service he was now bound, as she stood on the far side of the ship. She did not do much on the ship, the command of it was entrusted to her Captain, Galahad – a man of short, stocky built that looked like he had spent all his fifty years under the sun and harsh wind, so weathered were his looks. But it was obvious by the agility and grace of her movements through the death-trap that this ship could be, that the princess knew her way around it just as well as any sailor (in comparison, Gamlin felt like a lumbering fool, always tripping and thumping his feet everywhere). It had not been a surprise to be a witness to the cool, unwavering confidence with which the princess seemed to do everything. Gamlin had met women that were as proud and capable as any man, if not more. He had been a silent witness to Lady Eowyn's strength for years – he was no stranger to women of power. But this princess was something else.

Perhaps because of the air of cool control even when she did something as simple as listen to the reports of her officers, or perhaps the unfathomable look in her eyes when she stared at the southern horizon, but strangely enough, as Gamlin looked upon the Princess now, it was of the sea that she reminded him of: just as fascinating, just as precarious she seemed. There was heaviness in her silences, foreboding in the shadows that darkened her moods. Her face was set in an unchanging expression, all laughter gone from her eyes. There was only iron determination there now. There was nothing left in her of the smiling Princess he remembered from that stormy day in Minas Tirith.

Gamlin had to admit that he had been very much surprised when, almost two days ago, his King had come in his tent looking as forbidding as the Grim Reaper himself and told him that, should he accept the duty, the Princess of Dol Amroth needed a capable man to sail south with her, as part of her personal guard. Gamlin's first reaction had been to frown at such a request. He knew that he would have to decline the honour, for he was Captain of his King's guard and his first duty was with his sovereign and his men… but then the King had said something that had tipped the scales of that line of thought.

"I can see that you are going to say no… and I understand why. I promised that I would not order you to go, that you would be free to choose, and I will keep my promise." But there had been something intense in his King's look just then, something that reminded Gamlin of the power of the man before him, of the strength that raged inside his King… his friend. "But consider this before you give the Princess your answer: had there been any way that I could live through this battle before us, she would have been your Queen."

Hard green eyes watched him closely and Gamlin felt he had just received his orders. And it had not mattered then, as it did not matter now, that the lady was not free for his King to have. Gamlin cared little for details. When your long-time friend asks you to protect the woman he has chosen, you do not say no… not for the sake of pride nor anything else. And when your King makes it clear that he needs something from you, you do his will, whether he asks or not. So the Captain had spent that day preparing and left the very next day with first light and the rise of the tide, aboard the _Warrior_.

As soon as they had set sail, the Princess had called her captain and officers for a meeting and Gamlin had also been invited – indeed he had a feeling that he would be expected. The princess did not seem to treat him as a simple guard and soon Gamlin learned why. One by one, her men were dealt their orders and felt her cabin, until only two of them were left: himself and that soulless-looking ranger who was apparently in the same position Gamlin himself was - the Princess' shadow. Once they had been left alone the lady had sighed as if in relief and for the first time, he saw her tiredness in the way her shoulders slumped by just a fraction as he allowed herself a moment to rub the bridge of her nose as if an ache was spiking behind her forehead.

"My lords… I thank you for accepting to be my escorts." She started, resting her elbows on the table and looking at them in turns. The princess did not speak as she had in that tavern, days ago. There was detachment in her voice now, in her manner as well. It was as if she had stepped into her office and forgotten all else. She was conscious of the power she yielded, and that fact made everyone around her conscious of it also.

"I may come to ask strange things of you and it may very well be vital that you obey instantly, without hesitation, because that is the nature of this task you were given." The Princess added, watching them for a reaction. Silence followed her words however so the princess took deep breath and leaned forward on the table, linking pale long fingers together.

"Lord Aron, I know I don't have to say this, but still, I advise you towards caution and vigilance at all times. It will be easily perceivable that you are my guard, so you will be the first one to be attacked should anyone try to get to me… which will give _you_ time to react, Captain." The Princess said as she turned to Gamlin.

"You will pose as an emissary of Rohan, that way you can be within my company at all times, but without throwing suspicion since I spend most of my days within my father's study or in the council chambers. It's imperative that you do not act against this cover."

Gamlin felt himself smile. "So that if anyone gets past your first guard, you have me to protect you… and nobody expects it." Gamlin reasoned out loud, being given confirming of his words when the princess nodded.

She wanted to appear weak where she was in fact strong. It was a cunning plan really, a smart one. Dangerous too, since as all deceptions, it was also a lure for the attacker, but Gamlin had a feeling she already knew that. The true question that nobody has asked yet was why did she need to devise such intricate ways to protect herself? Anyone else would have simply hired more guards: four knights at her disposal, five if she needed them. Admittedly, five guards in her own home would have made people wonder what she was so afraid of.

…and there, in an unexpected revelation, Gamlin felt he had reached the heart of the matter: she _was_ very much afraid of something – or rather, someone - but was going to great lengths to show that she was not.

 _Pride_ , Gamlin decided. But he had a feeling this was also about something else, something more.

"Also Captain, you will be underestimated, because… well…" The Princess hesitated and looked so lost for words that Gamlin actually laughed.

"You can say it, Princess: because I'm old!"

And that was when he saw the first real smile grace her lips.

"Forty-five years on this earth do not make you old my lord, but in my country it's usually young men that take up duties of bodyguards, so nobody will readily think of you as my protector – and I intend to use that to my advantage. But also you will be misjudged and taken lightly because of recent mistrust and prejudice against your people.4"

Gamlin stiffened and the Princess sensed it. Her chin lifted infinitesimally and her voice held the kind of certainty that leaves no room for doubt. It was the tone commands were given.

"I promised you honesty, Captain, and I am delivering: in my presence and by my command, you will be shown every courtesy and honour that a foreign emissary and a warrior of your standing deserves…" the _'or else'_ that went unsaid was just as easily perceived in the unwavering way she held his eyes. "But I warn you against mean spirits I cannot control. There will be those that will delight in being unkind for the most ignoble of reasons."

Gamlin did not doubt the princes' own consideration for the Rohirrim: if she held such prejudices, his King would not favour her as he did, nor would she smile and laugh freely at the same table with Rohirrim warriors as she had. But Gamlin could not help but feel as if she was not speaking of people in general as much as some specific person. So there he took his chance.

"My lady…" Gamlin started carefully. "Is there anyone in particular that we need to watch out from?"

They both watched her hesitate and for a moment, the smallest moment, there was a slip in the wall of solid confidence that she used to separate herself from everyone else. Within the space of that moment she did not look so much a Princess. But that moment was gone as soon as it had come.

"By the time we arrive, the news of the march at the Black Gates with have reached Dol Amroth. My betrothed is there and he will be… well, let's just say that trying situations are very probable to arise." She leaned forward a little and it was obvious that this was of some importance to her, so her sworn keepers listened attentively."I tell you this because as my guards you will have to be careful, both of you. There will be times when you will think to protect me, but have a care: you must not seem too eager, or I will seem too desperate. You must find out yourselves when is the time to stay the blade and when to intervene."

Instinctively Gamlin exchanged a look with his now comrade and saw in his eyes the same confusion he felt. But then understanding started to sink in and Gamlin felt within himself the seed of something uncomfortable. The ranger's frown on the other hand, was a fearsome thing to behold and he seemed just and contrary to the idea the Princess had just expressed as Gamlin felt.

"My lady… though I can make the difference between an idle threat and a true one, I would rather strike down a man in error than allow you to come to harm." The ranger pointed out and Gamlin felt he wholeheartedly agreed. But the Princess only set her will harder against their objection - it was easy to know she wouldn't budge on this when she looked at them so impassively.

"You must take that risk sir, as must I." the princess said firmly. "Any sign of weakness from me and that will be my end. I need time and that can only be bought if he believes me as strong as I appear."

"As my lady commands." The ranger said, bowing his head.

The Princess turned her eyes to Gamlin and he limited himself to bowing his head also.

"Either way, I am not bothered by the idle slap that might befall me…" she said impassively and there was something deeply upsetting about the calmness with which she could say those words, accepted heir truth. "The real issue is a certain reputation that my betrothed has for 'disposing', let us say, of those who oppose him… I have a notion that before this is over he will try to have me assassinated."

Gamlin leaned a little forward and he saw the ranger sit a little straighter. How could she speak of this so utterly calmly, as if she was speaking of a stranger and not of herself. Was she truly as unafraid as she seemed?

"To put it simply my lords, you're not with me to babysit me, but to keep me alive. Soon you will learn there is a difference." The princess said and it was obvious that that was all she would say on the matter.

It was in that moment, as she so dispassionately considered the possibility of her own assassination, that Gamlin realized why the impassive way of the Princess' look and speech seemed to be to him so familiar. He had seen this before after all…

Princess Lothiriel did not have Lady Eowyn's coldness. Looking into the Princess' eyes one did not have the impression of snow and ice, but that of the steely edge of a sword. She was hot as fire in her determination and perhaps ever in anger, whereas the White Lady of Rohan was cold as frostbite. But these two women shared the same detachment with the world, even though through different means: where lady Eowyn distanced herself through a chilly manner that could sometimes even approach the boundaries of rudeness, Princess Lothiriel achieved her distance through a brand of regal, almost imperious bearing that discouraged any kind of familiarity. She relied more than Eowyn on her title – or rather, she used it as a shield, while Eowyn, though just as regal, preferred to use her own self as a weapon.

But in one thing the two of these distinguished ladies seemed to be exactly the same: looking at them, one might think that their insides were made of rock and steel, and not flesh and blood, as if that would protect them from all that the world could do to them. Gamlin hoped that would be enough. But if it wasn't, he thought as he threw a look at the ranger who was regarding the Lady grimly, there would be two very sharp and precise swords that would cut down all that she had to fear.

Little did he know that what Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth most feared, could not be destroyed through any weapon that they possessed. That there was a dark shadow in her life and before this was over, her blood would also wet the earth.

_o_

o

o

TBC:::


	9. My enemy's mirror

__****

_**9** _ _. My enemy's mirror_

_"I have always felt that fear possesses such great power, enough to paralyze and quake an individual. Pondering this, I realized that the source of fear's power comes from within me. So, I ask myself, does that not make_ me _the powerful one?"_

_Richelle E. Goodrich_

Dol Amroth was a hilly peninsula and on the northern part of it, where the cape met with the mainland they formed a natural harbour, which was the biggest of many smaller ports and alcoves of water so clear you could see the white stones beneath even in great depths – as the Princess explained to Gamlin and Aron who were unfamiliar with the land.

"Closer to shore you will see that the sea changes colour because it reflects the green of the trees that grow mere feet away from water." The lady said as she stood on deck and watched the shore grow closer. Her eyes watched the fast approaching coast grimly, but then, like a small ray of sunlight through heavy clouds, the princess turned a faint smile, towards Gamlin and then Aron.

"I should have liked to show you the beauties of my country, but I'm afraid there will not be a chance before everything resolves itself." The princess said softly. "Does it look very different from yours, Captain?"

"This far it does, my lady. I must confess I've never seen anything like the view I'm seeing now." Gamlin replied quietly, never taking his eyes off the shores that were swiftly coming closer.

And he had not. Not in Rohan certainly, but not even in Gondor. If he had thought that the docks of Harlond were big and messy, then apparently he had done so out of ignorance. It was at the shores of Dol Amroth that he truly learned what the meaning of 'port city' truly was. The docks of Dol Amroth stretched throughout the whole bay and there were ships sailing in and out, others anchored there at the shores. Fisherman's vessels, boats big and small, trading ships built spacious for storing goods; warships – light and fast… Gamlin did not believe he had ever seen so many kinds of sailing vessels all in one Princess pointed out to him her father's palace. It was built at the very top of Amroth Hill and so naturally it rose into being that that one could think the thick walls defending it had been carved out of the hard stone upon which they were built. They circled the palace and stretched onwards and downwards, surrounding in their protective embrace the entire city.

Gamlin turned to look at the Princess and found her staring at the shore intensely. The closer they came to shore the more anxious she seemed to become to be on land. To tell the whole truth, Gamlin could not but be of the same mind - any longer on sea and he would forget how to walk in a straight line.

Once they were docked, the Princess was ready to gallop home within moments. With her hair wrapped away under a turban, the corner of it coming over her nose and mouth, it was impossible to recognize her for who she was… unless one were to mind her eyes, and the way they never wavered. Gamlin had seen that unflinching look in very few. That was her most singular trait, Gamlin found, that single-minded purpose that made her into such a force to be reckoned with.

As they galloped through the city streets, Gamlin found that he liked Dol Amroth better than the regal and imposing sight that was Minas Tirith. Dol Amroth lay on a vast fields and soft hills and though not as impressive as the White City of kings, it made for a warmer and much more welcoming sight. It was a city built of a grey stone that seemed warmed in the sun, almost browned or yellowed by the ages, and rooftops of reddish tile. Gamlin saw houses with small gardens, tents of bright greens or blues hung over balconies, colourful flowers on windowsills. The bazaar they rode through was a feast of colours and spices. Brightness of colours seemed to be the rule here, and the proof of it was despite all the life that still endured, it was obvious the threat of war loomed close: the city was quiet, there were soldiers everywhere, not enough people on the streets for a city this large, and patrols of armed guards every five corners. The docks however were the part of the city that was most busy, most militarized - the barracks were not too far from it. Gamlin supposed that was the way for the city with the biggest fleet of all kingdoms.

"Who goes there?" came the call from atop the wall once they had reached the gates of the palace that was her home.

"The one to whom you own your allegiance. Open the gate." The ranger shouted, his voice booming. There was a scramble behind the doors and then from a side-opening a man in armour who looked to be an officer, came through. He was young, a bloody bandage was wrapped over his brow. He bowed his head before the princess and she graced him with a nod of her own.

"Lady, I am bound by orders from my Captain not to let anyone through, unless you have leave to be in the palace. I must ask you, begging your pardon, to confirm that you are the Princess."

The princess looked at him without speaking at first, as if she was appraising him.

"Don't you recognize your liege, Vorad?" She finally said, one gloved hand coming to lower the wrapping from over her nose and mouth, baring her face to the young captain – and to the guards watching from the wall. The soldier caught one glimpse of her and the surprise ricocheted on his entire face just before he immediately bowed his head, his fist over his heart in the way that was common for southerners to salute their liege.

"Your highness… I humbly beg your pardon for the insolence."

"There is nothing to forgive, you do your duty well. Now tell me, why are the gates closed? The doors of my father's home have always been left open. Why has this changed?" the princess asked, irritation inflaming her tone despite the crisp politeness of her chosen words. The officer looked nervous for a moment and Gamlin couldn't blame him. He probably knew no more than what his superiors saw fit to tell him.

"I take orders from my captain, Princess." The officer said simply, just as the heavy and wide metal gates of the palace were fully Princess seemed to realize her own mistake, and the look on her face softened.

"Of course. Here are your new orders: the ruling progeny of the house of Dol Amroth has returned and the gates are to remain opened _always_ , as is my father's way and as was the way of his father before him."

The captain bowed his head. "As my lady Princess commands." and then made way for the three riders to pass. They galloped on the stone pathway that led through the green and well-cared gardens surrounding the palace, surrendered their horses halfway through and then followed the Princess up the stone steps of her home.

Nervous the lady seemed, impatient – or perhaps not, Gamlin did not know how to explain her. She did not seem at all uncertain, but there was a strange, almost frenzied energy about her. Her frown had not yet eased and her eyes kept darting about her, as if she was on edge and yet, she never faltered. There was ownership in the very way she walked here: surefooted and swift paced, looking straight ahead, not sparing a glace to anything that was not her goal even as she greeted the occasional noble ladies or lords that were about. In those faces he saw, Gamlin read many reactions, but none particularly impressed him until an old man came forward. There was not a single coloured hair in his head - even his short beard was snow white, and his eyes a crystal clear sky-blue.

"Your Highness, welcome home." he said as he approached the Princess. He was the only one that dared come to cut her way… but then again, at the sight of him the lady smiled, however faintly, and that was the first easing of her sternly set expression in days.

"Lord Creol, it's good to see you. What news in my absence?" She said as she put her hand in his for the customary greeting. The old man looked at her with something that Gamlin would call warmth, not at all bothered by the way she so abruptly cut down to the quick of things. It seemed such was her way with all, not just her officers and guards.

"My lady Princess, you have been sorely missed. Alas, it seems my fate never to be able to bring you words of comfort, but only ill news." The old man responded – not responding at all - and that gave the Princess visible pause. She did not seem to Gamlin as one that would like to receive riddles, where her questions were direct.

"What has happened?" She asked and then, a flicked of some emotions dancing in her eyes, she looked about herself as if searching for someone. "Where is Oreus?"

"I am here, my lady Princess. The decrepit march slowly." A voice called and another man came forward, albeit slowly because he leaned heavily on a cane as he walked. He was obviously in his sixties but well maintained into old age, tall still and light of frame, with hair still long and of a dark grey, as were his eyes. The relief on the Princess' face was palpable.

"Pay no mind to that old crow, my Lady, he is as fastidious as always." Oreus said lightly, making the Princess smile faintly. "And he does you wrong by alarming you when you have just set foot on land."

"No, I want to know what happened." The Princess insisted firmly and both men were stilled, but then the one with hair white as snow spoke, his face grave.

"It grieves me to tell you this your Highness, but Captain Felared has passed away." The old man said carefully… and Gamlin saw the Princess falter, eyes wide with disbelief. He noticed the change in her colouring, in her breathing. How her eyes moved from one man to the other, without being able to understand, even though deep down, she knew the truth of the words spoken. It only took a moment for her to digest it – much faster indeed that Gamlin had expected. And then, her expression changed, from shock, to pain, to sparkling ire that froze her features and lit up her eyes.

"When? How?" she ground out, barely a whisper.

"An unfortunate brawl in a tavern, it seems, not two days after your departure." The white-haired man answered tonelessly. And it seemed to Gamlin that though his lips spoke of one thing, his eyes said something else. It was obvious to the Rohir that the councillor did not for a moment believe his own words.

The Princess frowned deeply."What nonsense is this?" she asked, lips feeling numb for how tightly she was pressing them together.

"The culprits were apprehended and executed mere hours after their crime. A splendid example of the efficiency of our new Captain General." The white-haired councillor – _Creol_ , Gamlin reminded himself – added, the sarcasm in his tone making the statement into a mockery even though the man's face remained perfectly blank.

Gamlin watched comprehension finally settle heavily on the Princess' features and distort the beauty of her face into rage so hot it seemed unnatural on such sweet lineaments. Her hands fisted and for a moment it seemed she was not breathing flame only because she had too much self-control to do so.

"That unimaginable _bastard!_ How _dare_ he?" She hissed through her teeth, making Gamlin's eyebrows rise at her candour.

"You have yet to introduce us to your companions, my lady Princess." Oreus, the one with the cane, said calmly, making as if he had not heard his lady' unseemly language at all, and Gamlin felt the weight of careful appraisal as the old man's dark grey eyes fell on him, taking him in from head to the princess dismissed his attempt at normality as if it irritated her. Gamlin had no doubt it did.

"The is time enough for that later. Where is he?" she snapped. None of the men seemed too bothered because of it. Either she was the Princess and therefore did anything she liked, or they were simply too used to her to notice anything amiss in the way she completely disregarded any form of protocol or manners when it suited her. Perhaps it was both. As it seemed, Gamlin had been lectured on Gondorian formality for nothing.

"As the natural substitute for Captain Felared, Captain Deonvan became our acting ruler and is now holding council, your highness, at the request of the other members." Creol explained in that ever-even tone that was starting to irritate Gamlin quite a bit.

The look on the Princess' face turned from murderous to blank as a clean sheet of parchment, as if she had sucked back all her emotions and liquefied them inside her – they shone fiercely behind her eyes, making them look like dancing blue flames when she turned and locked them on Gamlin… Or perhaps it looked that way because her face had lost even that little colour she had had left.

"My lord ambassador." She said carefully. "Allow me to present you to my father's council."

She spoke flatly, her calm so strained that her skin seemed to be stretched too tightly over the bones of her face for the effort to keep the appearance of being composed. Then the Princess turned and stalked down a hallway to her left with a step so sure that she would have trampled anyone who dared come in her path.

e.l.e.l.e.e.l.e.l.

"He has sat on your father chair for the better part of your absence." Creol explained as they walked and judging by the princess' scoff, there was no need, for she had already imagined as much.

"Who has he been meeting with?" She asked as took a few papers that the councillor handed her. She gave a questioning look to Creol when he handed them over, but did not ask why he wanted her to read them and it was only then that it was obvious to Gamlin how much the Princess trusted this old man. Her perusal was fast, she read as she walked.

"With whoever came to petition the council." Oreus answered this time.

The princess did not speak but Gamlin saw the way her lips turned thin from the anger she was trying to control. And then she reached a part on the document that gave her steps pause.

"Marshall law in civil tribunals? Higher taxation on foreign merchants and pilgrims?" She lowered the paper and glared at both Creol and Oreus as if it was their fault. "I was gone for a week - a _mere week_ \- and _this_ is where it comes to?" She asked, her voice giving the deceptive appearance of sounding calm – if it weren't for the way she was holding that tome so tightly that the paper had crumbled. But all was bare in her eyes, they were alight with an emotions more corrosive than plain anger.

"Oh, he is doing this just to provoke me…" she murmured, as if she was speaking her thoughts aloud to none but herself.

"I believe he missed you quite thoroughly." Creol said with a dismissive tone that would suggest he was thoroughly bored with the topic. "Perhaps he got the notion you might never come back, and decided to do something about it."

The Princess glared at the old man something fierce, but his only response was a barely perceptible lift of the eyebrows.

"Where is Captain Brion?" the princess asked curtly as she started walking again, wisely deciding against continuing that line of discussion where anyone might hear them.

"After being dishonourably discharged for incompetence after Captain Felared's murder he was ordered to return home." Creol replied.

It seemed utterly grating to Gamlin how the man could to avoid a straight answer so neatly. Was this a prerogative of all councillors? Yet the man before him seemed nothing like Grima Wormtongue…

But the Princess seemed well versed in the art of extracting truths that clung between the man's words.

"Not far then." She muttered. "I want to see him as soon as he is able to be here. Oreus, I need you to choose twenty of our most trustworthy men. I have a task for them."

"I will choose wisely." The man replied laconically.

"And quietly." The princess specified. "How soon can they be ready to ride out?"

"For you, tomorrow." And this time the answer held such honest fervour that it made the princess smile at the old man even though faintly, the warmth in her eyes temporarily placating her anger.

That was when the wide doors at the end of the corridor opened and Gamlin was met with the sight of a wide room, with walls lined with bookshelves and tall windows that let daylight through clearly. In the round table in the middle of the room there were seated perhaps ten or so men and when they saw her come in, they all rose almost in unison, some astounded to see her there… others plainly relieved for the same reason. But there were those who did not seem so pleased at her appearance and Gamlin found himself carefully taking note of who those people were, so he could ask the Princess later.

"Greetings, my Lords." Princess Lothiriel greeted simply, as she always did, her strong voice resounding in the otherwise utterly quiet room. "I can see that work is proceeding very well even in my absence, as it must." She said indifferently as she took off her leather riding gloves and casually handed them to the girl that seemed to pop out of nowhere by her side.

"Princess! I… I beg your pardon for not greeting you properly, we were not informed of your coming." One of the men said – he was dressed in a vibrant red tunic, almost flamboyant and was so wide in the belly that it made Gamlin think it must have been a long time since this one had last seen his own cock.

"My departure from Minas Tirith was under the most hasty circumstances Sir Loras, I had not the time nor opportunity to send out a messenger."

"We are most glad to have you back safely, my Lady Princess. We've heard the most disturbing rumours." An old man in deep blue said gravely from her left, his eyes holding the Princess's firmly… almost commandingly, Gamlin would dare say. But the Princess did not have any difficulty holding the weight of that gaze. She commanded presence of her own and did so seemingly effortlessly, with innate strength and a self-possession so total that it reminded all in the room of exactly who she was.

"So have I, Lord Elward." and her words were curt, effectively halting the speech of anyone else. Her eyes stopped heavily on one of the men at the table – the youngest of the company, who was in his thirties, with the dark hair and sharp grey eyes of Gondorians – and as she did he bowed and moved aside, freeing his seat and moving behind it.

So _this_ was her betrothed. Gamlin eyed the man with as much care as he dared. The Lord was perhaps handsome of face, if one fancied the type; dark of hair with clear eyes of a colour Gamlin could not quite make out, and tall of body and his wide shoulders suggested strength of build. He was dressed as finely as any of the men in the table, but unlike them, he had a certain quality that made him stand out. Perhaps the way he stood, tall and proud, or that little smirk at the corner of his lips as if he knew something others did not… or perhaps the way he kept his feet apart and the minimal movements he made, saving strength and in the manner of well trained swordsmen, always ready to spring in action.

"I was just informed of the sudden death of my regent." The Princess stated flatly.

"A most tragic accident, your highness." One of her councillors said, drawing the weight of her stare towards himself.

"That will be of comfort to his family, I'm sure." The princess returned so icily that the man who spoke felt it necessary to straighten his Eowyn could have been jealous of the frostiness of her then moved towards her chair swiftly, and offered to Gamlin the chair to her right, with a casual wave of her hand. "My Lords, May I introduce you to our ambassador of Rohan: Captain Gamlin, son of Gunnir, first hand of Theoden King, may the gods rest his soul; and Captain of the Guard to his grace Eomer, son of Eomund, King of Rohan. "

Gamlin gave the assembly a small bow of the head, looking them in the eyes one by one, making notes in his head. The reactions on the faces he saw ranged wide, from interest to outrage to blankness. But none spoke and Gamlin gathered that they were waiting for the princess to give way.

"Are we taking up diplomatic relations with the Horselords, my princess?" one of the lords asked and the princess nodded.

"We are and hopefully, they will be prosperous. Rohan has proven a most steadfast friend to Gondor at a very high cost to its people. It is the Steward's greatest wish that the relations between our kingdoms be reinstated once more… and it is also mine." The princess turned to Gamlin and bowed her head to him. "You shall be my most honoured guest, my lord."

"You have my thanks, Princess. And my gratitude." Gamlin said simply.

Once she took her seat, so did all the rest and so did Gamlin. Creol, the white haired one, took his seat to her left and it was only then did he realize that he was holding the place of honour in her table, sitting directly at her right, where there had been before only empty chairs.

"Very well. Before we proceed I should like to adjust a few things. _This_ -" and she slammed the tome hard on the table. "-I don't know what madness possessed this council to validate these _asinine_ laws and I don't care, but I want them revoked and my city back to its normalcy, or I shall know the reason why."

"Your grace, the strict measures were needed when we feared…" the fat one began, but the princess interrupted him without half a thought for propriety.

"My Lord Loras… did I by some chance ask to be counselled on this matter?" she asked, voice like frosted razorblades, eyes unflinching on the lord, who faltered.

"You did not, my princess."

"And did I ask you _why_ these legislations were passed?"

"No, my princess."

There was a tense moment of silence that made itself felt throughout the table. "A wise man might then gather that I needed neither the justification nor the reasoning behind this blunder."

"I beg your pardon, Princess." The fat man responded, and there was a twist of scorn on his lips. "I assumed that being part of your council, my role was in fact, to _council_ you against rash action."

And this was where the princess snapped. Her lips thinned with the effort to keep her voice calm.

"And if you along with Lord Aradrim over there, had not been one of the most auspicious merchants to have profited, in a mere _week_ , twice over from this ridiculous new tax system _…_ " her voice lashed, cracking the tension like a whip. "Then perhaps I would be more inclined to listening."

The princess leaned forward on the table, her eyes burning with intent. Gamlin swore he could heard the winds of nearby flies buzzing, so silent was the room.

"I am thinking now whether it would be wiser to cut off your hands like any common thief." The princess hissed, her unflinching gaze making the fat Lord squirm in his chair.

"My lady princess… I am but one man. You cannot think I am the only one to…"

The princess straightened. Her voice deepened and resounded in the silent room.

"Do not presume to tell me what I can or cannot think, sir." It seemed to Gamlin that for a moment none in that table dared to breathe too loudly. But then the moment passed and when the princess spoke, she did so as calmly as ever. "I know well what gold can buy and what threats can yield… But it true, Lord Loras, you are but one man at this table. Lord Deonvan!" the princess turned her eyes to the man who had seated himself right in front of her. Gamlin had been watching him from the corner of his eye the entire time. Not once had the Gondorian taken his eyes off the princess. He was like a predator watching his meal.

But when the princess looked at him, the strength of both their wills clashed silently. Neither blinked.

"Why are you still here?"

The Lord smiled… and it was a cutting expression that did not touch his cold eyes.

"I am simply basking in your return, my princess." The Lord answered gently. There was a note of not-so-subtle ownership in that small pressure he put when he called her ' _my_ princess'. It implied ownership… and it made the princess fist her hands in anger. "It is indeed a pleasure to see you back in the halls of your fathers. I was starting to fear you never again grace us with your presence."

The words sounded pleasant enough, so did the tone in which they were spoken… so why did Gamlin feel every hair in the back of his neck stand, as if there was a threat somewhere in them that he could not simply point at?

"Indeed. You've been so sure in that assumption that you grown lax in your duties. Tell me, why have you abandoned your post?" But just as the man opened his mouth, the Princess interrupted."That was a rhetorical question, I do not need nor do I want your answer. I want you to return to your station. You're dismissed."

"Begging your pardon, princess, but you need me here. Since Captain Felared's sudden… demise, I am the highest ranking officer of your navy, and as such, that makes me Acting Commander of your fleet… and the _actual_ Commander of half of it, which is in fact mine."

Gamlin was quick to note that the Lord spoke evenly and smoothly, with nothing but politeness in his tone to give away anything he might think or feel. And yet there was more to him, to those sparkling eyes of blue that seemed so cold. And whatever it was, the princess went utterly still at it. The rigidity of her frame spoke of some deep and violent emotions, but her face showed nothing, and neither did her eyes. She seemed as if made of steel and rock in that moment.

"So it is. And yet here you are, where you are not needed, instead of being out in the seas, where you are most wanted." The flatness of her tone was gratin even to Gamlin. She sounded utterly cool… yet her eyes seared. "But you are right: you are the acting commander and as such you have the right to seat on my council." The princess nodded stiffly, a corner of her lips twisting upwards into the imitation of a smile… a smile that was as sharp as a razorblade. "How convenient Captain Felared's assassination is proving to be for you."

Lord Deonvan's eyes narrowed and his façade cracked, but before h could open his mouth to speak, someone else did – a man who was as tall as Gamlin, well built and heavy set, with a dark beard and black eyes. He was the only one in the room to be in full armour except the guards.

"My lady Princess, I assure you, the captain was not assassinated. He was injured in a drunken tavern brawl. His wound was made by knife and was superficial; it was the fever that took him days later. The culprits were apprehended and punished accordingly."

The look the princess threw him was withering.

"And who might you be?"

The knight was surprised at her impassivity and blinked back at her for a moment. It was a moment too long. The princess turned to her advisor, the white haired Creol who seemed just as expressionless as she.

"Creol, who is this and why is he speaking to me?" she then asked.

"He is sir Silas of house Teberez, princess, the new captain of the city guard."

"Is he?" she turned back to the armoured man. "I thank you for your services captain. However, they will not be needed any longer. You are relieved of duty, as of immediately. One of my men will escort you to the docs and you may go back whichever way you came from."

At her obvious dismissal the knight finally found his tongue.

"What? This… this is not to be born." He rose so swiftly that he almost knocked the chair out from behind him. "I will not stand here take this humiliation from a girl that has not yet seen fifteen summers!"

The princess turned to look at the man impassively.

"You have not much wit about you, do you? Yes, you _will_ take it from me, unless you'd rather take it from my friend over there." She only so slightly bent her head towards the ranger who was standing behind her, hand on his sword ever so casually, and his looks told the captain all he needed to know.

"My friends… Lord Deonvan will not stand for this1." He declared even though the man was sitting right there, smiling at some secret jape none but him could discern.

"You mean _captain_ Deonvan. Allow me to I assure you that he will stand for whatever his liege commands him to." A little smile without humour made its way to her lips. "Wont you, captain?"

Lord Deonvan bowed his head to her. "Ever with the outmost loyalty, princess."

The princess straightened and looked her council over again.

"Very well. Now I should like to be informed of the Order of the Day, and the discussion may continue wherever it left off. Please, proceed."

And the session did, without a moment of hesitation… and Gamlin was treated to three more hours of brutal efficiency of the likes he had not seen before, at least not in this manner.

ooo

They asked her all manner of things and the princess relayed all that she knew of what had happened in Minas Tirith in a clear voice and a sure tone. She told them of the march to the Black gates, the garrison of a thousand men that was travelling from Gondor and would reach Dol Amroth by land, to reinforce the keeps where villagers were stationed and secure the borders. She told them of the ships of Umbar that were now in her possession, to be added to Dol Amroth's fleet and that got a round of cheers and laughter from all around the table but for her betrothed, whose eyes sharpened on the princess, calculating.

More interesting were the things she did not tell them, and the times she lied. Twice, to be precise – and did so with a face so unchanged that had Gamlin not known different, he would have never been able to perceive her deception. It rather strained Gamlin's opinion of the princess, but not by much. There was a mission she had to complete, she had said so herself. And as she chose which information to keep and which to disclose, Gamlin wondered what game she was playing at.

As for her betrothed… he seemed a strange man. During the meeting he worked efficiently, knew all that he was supposed to and seemed to have a sharp mind for military and an inventive one for strategy. Even though the princess now had technically twice the ships he did, she did not revoke him as her Acting Commander if Ships, and Lord Deonvan took note of that carefully. The truth was that, had the man looked upon the princess a little more kindly, perhaps Gamlin would not have been so suspicious of him. But there was a hardness to him, a glint in his eye that Gamlin did not trust. And even though nothing untoward passed between them, it became clear to Gamlin that the princess spoke to him without any regard, and that there was a harshness acknowledged between them, one that they covered with fine manners.

The way the princess looked at Lord Deonvan was cold and flat, and the more indifferent she was to him, the more he seemed to be angered by it, the more arrogance bled in his words. He disrespected her sometimes, in tiny bursts of irony, and she disregarded him as if he were a fly she could not be bothered to swat away, but not once did their tone turned harsh, their words to anger. There was haughtiness in her manner, but it did not seem misplaced or frivolous: she yielded the power of a ruler and – something that was a bit more important - was acknowledged as such by men twice her age or more, whom sat in that same table with her. A power that she was aware of, and used well. And when the princess looked down her nose at a biting word that the lord Deonvan spoke, her eyes cold and her manner utterly unflappable… she was so superior to him then that whatever he might have said dwindled to nothing. She was untouched and unreachable as a star, completely in control. And that was when the difference which had seemed small in the beginning, between Lo the princess of Dol Amroth, born of kings and blood of elves, and the man that was to be her husband, became a gapping canyon between mountains.

And it was then that the spark of violence lit the hard eyes of her betrothed. It was then that Gamlin saw what was truly dangerous in the man. Because he was as aware as Gamlin was of that distance, as the princess herself was… and he hated her for it.

oOo

The council broke about three hours before supper and Gamlin could see that the men were eager to leave, but not all of them. The princess remained behind, wanting to be the last to leave the room as she gathered the papers around her and passing them to one of the serving girls who had appeared by her side, silent as a shadow.

"Please take these to my study Lya." The princess said softly to the girl. "Have my girls prepare me a bath and let my aunt know that I shall be calling on her shortly."

"Yes, your grace."

"I want to feast in the main hall tonight, to welcome the Rohan ambassador. Let the kitchens know that the usual arrangement is to be followed for the leftovers."

"Yes your grace." Te girl repeated, softly. She made to leave, hesitated a single moment, then turned to the princess, who interrupted her speech and looked at the girl expectantly.

"It is good to have you back, your grace." The girl said with a tiny voice, before she bowed and left in a hurried step. The princess followed her with her eyes for a long while and Gamlin had to call on her attention to get it back. But he did not succeed in having it long because just as the princess was apologising to him for having kept him so long into a council meeting without proper refreshment from their trip, her betrothed neared them, and Gamlin felt his spine tingle with awareness of the man.

Just by looking at him and the way his clothes hung on him Gamlin could tell that he had at least four hidden blades beneath those velvets and fine cloth.

"Lord Ambassador, welcome to the City by the Sea. I hope Dol Amroth is to your liking."

Gamlin took the hand offered to him without hesitation. Lord Deonvan's handshake was strong and assured. A man who knew what he wanted. His eyes did not flinch form Gamin's as they shook hands; a man not afraid to fight for what he wanted. From so close, Gamlin finally was able to discern the true colour of his eyes: a sharp blue that was so clear it looked almost grey, but not quite.

"As far as I have seen, it makes a lovely sigh, my Lord. The sea is something I had never even dreamed of before."

Lord Deonvan smiled and nodded, the warmth infusing his features. "I understand what you mean. As all things indomitable, the sea waves its magic in the hearts of all men."

Gamlin only nodded but said nothing. It was not his way to waste words, and this lord knew how to spin them. it was only then, that Lord Deonvan turned to the princess.

"Your grace." He greeted with a nod and what could be called a charming smile.

"Captain." She returned, drily.

"I am so very sorry for your loss, princess." Lord Deonvan said again. His eyes were softer now, not quite so hard as he looked at her. Had he not known better Gamlin might have fallen for it. But the princess did not yield an inch of her so impassable façade and her eyes remained hard as she looked back at him… it bled the man out of his softness like a swords that bleeds one out of life.

"I thought we had agreed to make this simple and not lie to each other, my lord." The princess deadpanned. "Besides, my father and brothers are not dead yet. There is no need to mourn them early."

"They are marching on death. It is the same." Lords Deonvan countered. In Gamin's opinion he did not do so with any sort of particular malice, but then again, there was nothing else in his voice either. It was hard to maintain emotions though, when eyes so unflinching as the princess' were staring back at you. It made one feel under attack whether one were in the wrong or not.

She was no soft woman, this princess… and suddenly Gamlin wondered who it was that his King had seen and felt for, and if Eomer knew the many layers to this woman; what coldness she was capable of. What harshness.

Her eyes when they looked at her betrothed, were as unforgiving as the storms of white peaks of Karadhras.

"Perhaps it is to you, my lord." She said evenly. She was standing so ramrod straight that she looked like a spear. There was not much height difference between the lord and the princess, Gamlin noticed.

"You have not lost the audacity, I see, to scorn me when I try to comfort you with sincerity." Lord Deonvan said, leaning his hip against one the table and giving the princess half a smile, that was in itself, mocking.

The princess' eyes flashed. " _Sincerity_ … Such a word to come out of your mouth, my lord. I have ever doubted you know what it means."

There… _there_ it was, Gamlin saw it. The loss of all deceit and pretence, as this elusive Lord abandoned every lie and looked at the princess with his own eyes. They were hard and flat.

"You mock me. That is unwise of you." He said and though it was spoken evenly, the threat was implicit because Gamlin knew who he was, and who he was promised to be to the princess specifically.

"I stated the truth of things. If that is what mockery is to you, then perhaps you should not have made it so." The princess said simply.

His sharp eyes narrowed. "Have a care, Lothiriel."

"I am _Princess_ Lothiriel, to you." The princess harshly said. "And you better heed your own advice."

"You know, Princess, my father once told me…"

"I don't care what your father once told you." She snapped, impatiently. Ruthlessly.

Lord Deonvan stiffened from head to the tip of his toes, malice flooding in his eyes and that was when Gamlin knew that he was glad he'd come. This was a strange relationship that these two had, with more hidden than even his careful eye could see. Perhaps the princess might have gotten farther if she had been more lenient to this lord. It was obvious to Gamlin that her betrothed wanted her to like him. as it was obvious that the princess denied him everything that she possibly could without offending her own upbringing. Gamlin didn't care if that was fair or not – it was not for him to pass judgment. It was for him to protect his charge and he knew, without a doubt, that she would need his protection sooner or later.

Lord Deonvan's neck reddened in anger at her insolence, but he was bound by his own circumstance and desires. Gamlin could see it in those glinting eyes: the promise of the violence to come, as retribution. That day would come… but it had not yet. And that was proved when the Lord smiled to her slowly, his face too cruel to be truly handsome.

"All will be settled, my lady Princess." He said with a slow bow, and then turned on his heel and strode off, throwing one of the servants from his path with such force that the boy almost tumbled off the stairs. The move had been unexpected to Gamlin, but not to the princess. She narrowed her eyes at the Lord's retreating back and her lips thinned in displeasure, but she gave no other reaction.

When she turned to Gamlin, her face was whipped clean.

"Come, my Lord. I shall show you to your rooms. They will be in the main wing, where I house the guests I actually like." Her blue eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief and Gamlin fund himself smiling back. "You will have a splendid view of the sea at sunrise."

She was pleasant and utterly charming with whom she liked. Not so, with those she did not however… Gamlin wondered if this was really such a rare thing. _Are we not all this way_ , he asked himself as they walked. _We are_ , was the obvious answer, _but not all of us are princes_. Not all of us have the power to make and unmake lives by the flicker of sympathy or a lack of tolerance.

Gamlin watched her carefully as they walked and she spoke to him of her city and the dinner that awaited them. Her smile was warm, if not a little tired, and even the dark kohl around her wide blue eyes could not hide her weariness. The servants were starting to light the torches and the fire of them flickered, reflecting against the polished marble of the floor. There were flowers everywhere and bursts of colour in the corners, of tents and fluttering drapes.

Before he spoke of what was actually bothering him, Gamlin looked around. They were climbing a wide staircase and were seemingly alone but for the ranger who trailed like a shadow behind them.

"Your betrothed… is a dangerous man to anger, my lady." Gamlin said as quietly as he could. Indeed, Gamlin feared that he may have to kill him sooner than expected, if the way the princess had spoken to him tonight was her usual way, and he always reacted with such passion to her every word.

The princess smiled at the Captains factual tone.

"Actually, in time he becomes quite an easy man to understand, my lord. Once you know him, you come to know that he is a liar… and that he always means everything he says."

That got Gamin's attention."Even the lies, my lady?"

The princess turned to look Gamlin in the eyes, in dead earnest.

" _Especially_ the lies."

oOo

Lothiriel walked briskly through the halls of the western wing. She was a minutes short of reaching the glass gardens, her aunt's favourite spot for resting those old bones, as she likes to say, at this time of the day. With the sun almost setting, it would fall upon the rooftops of the glasshouses and illuminate them with golden light of sunset. It was a beauty to see, Lothiriel had to admit to that and whenever she had the time, she joined her aunt in these moments of peace.

She walked straight through the thick vegetation of the greenhouse and into the centre of it, where a round table set for two awaited her. Her aunt was laying in her chair, feet propped up and watching the setting sun through the glass panes of the greenhouse. Lothiriel went to her and kissed both her cheeks as greeting before sitting down in the chain in front of her aunt.

Ivriniel turned to her niece and her eyes took her in from the tip of her hair to the tip of her slippers. She had darkened her eyes with kohl, as her niece was so oft to do, to hide her youth and make herself into a more threatening creature than her loveliness allowed. In this light, Ivriniel could see the freckles that dusted her niece's nose because the paleness of Lothi's skin was more enhanced than usual this day and somewhat on the unhealthy side, undoubtedly because of her wearisome day. Those wild curls that had always defied brushes and Ivriniel's own patience were now gathered away from Lothi's face in a loose bun at the back of her neck. The neckline of her dress was bejewelled, its silk of a dark burgundy that shone blood red when light flickered and broke upon it. And in the shade… it looked as dark as blood in moonlight.

Immediately, Ivriniel's eye sharpened. _Why cloak yourself in such darkness, my lovely_ , she wanted to ask. But Lothiriel had ever been a stubborn child. She would not answer.

"Lothiriel… you were gone too long." Ivriniel said, and her niece sighed. For a moment, a single breath, those straight shoulders curved and Lothiriel was about to fold into herself – and it was then that Ivriniel knew just how weary her niece was. But the moment was short-lived, shorter than a blink. Lothiriel straightened, her eyes were alight with purpose.

"I know. I am here now."

 _Indeed_ , Ivriniel though. _You are_. And she burned to know just what her niece was setting in motion. There had been no hints of course – Lothiriel knew better than to leave any. But Ivriniel knew the woman she had raised; she knew her better than any of the men in Lothiriel's life did. Her father and brothers, even that betrothed of her that was proving such a nuisance, they all saw who she was to them, but more often than not, men tended to miss who a woman was to herself. That was the shade of Lothiriel that Ivriniel understood better than all the rest.

"What is this I hear that there is a man of Rohan among us?" Ivriniel asked seemingly without purpose.

Lothiriel rolled her eyes and reached for her tea. It was hot still. "He is the Rohirrim ambassador, aunt."

But Ivriniel had no patience for it. "Come now girl, leave the plays for the others. The Rohirrim don't care a whit for foreign relations these days."

Lothiriel smiled around her gulp of willow tea. "They have a new king now and he will need every friend they can get. The Rohirrim have had a very hard few years aunt. I promised father I would be a friend to them. …The King of Rohan saved his life, you know."

Her aunt's eyes sharpened immediately. It almost made Lothiriel regret evr mentioning this to her. "Did he, now?"

That was a bait, one that Lothiriel did not take.

"Cousin Faramir sends his regards. He is alive, if not entirely well – he was injured and…" Lothiriel gulped. She still count believe it.

"I know, I know. I heard." and the disgust was alive in Ivriniel's tone and in her face. The sharp grey eyes looked over at the setting sun. "Madness... Madness and _stupidity_..." she whispered to herself. Ivriniel shook her white head, regret and anger filling her, making her lips thin. "I should have had that man killed while I had the chance. Gondor would have been far better off with Boromir and Faramir…"

Lothiriel's hand paused and the cup froze halfway to her lips. She knew that Ivriniel, despite the insistence she put on all things partaking a lady's delicate conduct and gentle manner, was very much capable of hardness and cunning - just as much as Lothiriel herself was. They had both had to grow into womanhood in households with too many men and few women for company, they had both had to rule Dol Amroth at one time of war or another. But despite that, Lothiriel had never expected such a declaration from her aunt, even though she knew Ivriniel had loathed Denethor for taking Findulias away and hated him fiercely for allowing her to die.

"But no matter." her aunt said suddenly turning to Lothiriel once more. And when her aunt started speaking to her in the old sindarin of the seashores, Lothiriel knew that she was in trouble. There was probably ten people in all Dol Amroth that could understand that language... and Lothiriel and her aunt were two of them. "Tell me of yourself, girl. Tell me what is roaming that mind of yours." and when Lothiriel did not speak Ivriniel leveled those grey eyes like morning fog at her, looking at her niece from beneath her lashes. "Come now, let's not bother with the pleasantries. You must have spoken with Faramir and your father about that troublesome young man of yours. And I know you like neat things and planning ahead, so slitting his throat on his wedding night is not likely to be your way out. So… what is your plan, dear niece?"

Lothiriel felt her heart hammer against her ribs. Her silence stretched, and Ivriniel sighed.

"You better do it quickly." her aunt continued as she straightened and took her own teacup to take a sip. "You surely know what his plan is: he will impregnate you, allow you to give birth – if he is patient, and I'm afraid he is, he will do this more than once - and then he _will_ kill you, rest assured. So you better have a plan, girl."

Lothiriel finally reacted. It was the dry way her aunt put it, so devoid of emotion. She could not stand it. When Lothiriel herself thought of that fate… she could scream.

"Aunt Ivriniel, I cannot speak of this, not even to you." Lothiriel tried, but her aunt waved her away with a swipe of her frail looking hand.

"I suggest poison." Ivriniel continued as she chose her tiny cake and ate it with the delicacy of a born queen, as if she had not heard Lothiriel at all.

Lothiriel could not help the smirk at that point.

"Poison. A woman's weapon."

Her aunt rolled her eyes and gave her a hard, admonishing look. "That is your pride talking. Pride can get you killed faster than sharp steel. You want something done, you chose the means that best fit your aim." Ivriniel's eyes grew fierce. "If I had someone threatening my life, my home and my people, I would kill him with a chicken-bone if I had to."

Lothiriel couldn't keep her laughter back. She looked at her aunt with a fondness that she had always felt, despite their differences. Why did people ever wonder where she got her ferocity from? This woman, the woman that had been the only mother Lothiriel had ever known, was one of the strongest, most capable and most fierce creatures Lothiriel had ever met. True, Ivriniel had trained her into her role as a lady and a princess with the rigidity and harshness of a military captain, and there had been no love lost between them for a long time… sometimes Lothiriel had even though she hated her aunt. But that was no bar for friendship now that Lothiriel was grown (and had found a use for everything her aunt ever taught her), and it certainly did not diminish the affection that had come in time, once they were more able to understand each other.

"There is a berry I have heard of, the nightshade." Her aunt began slowly. "One drop every day for three months and he will die slowly, peacefully, of a form of sickness that looks very much like summer fever."

Lothiriel's eyes widened.

"I thought nightshade was extinct. There has been almost a century since any of it was recorded in Dol Amroth shores." And not only that but it was also highly illegal to have any.

"Indeed." her aunt countered, with such obviousness in her tone that it seemed she had not told her just a moment ago that she grew it.

Lothiriel rolled her eyes.

"He has been raping your maids." Ivriniel said after a moment of quiet. Lothiriel's eyes snapped at her aunts so quickly it was a wonder the air did not crackle.

"Beg pardon?"

"He has a distinct preference for dark haired girls, I hear, and orders them to keep their eyes closed because none of them have the right shade of blue… so if I were you I would keep that guard of yours close."

Lothiriel swore she could almost feel her blood as it left her face. Some things she had not understood before now fell into place with a dry snap. Shackle heated into outrage slowly.

_Nightshade..._

Her aunt misunderstood her. Lothiriel did like well-thought out plans and did not usually give in to impulses… (and though appealing, slitting Deonvan's throat was, politically speaking, more problematic than it was worth) but this time she had neither the time nor the patience for the likes of nightshade.

There were other things to take care of first.

"The steward has broken the engagement. I have the documents and all the seals to make it official."

Ivriniel arched one brow. "I hope you also have a plan to counter his lashing. Your lad is not one to go gently."

Irritation flared in Lothiriel's eyes. "Please do not call him that." she said between tightly pursed lips. "And I do have a plan. …There is a garrison of fathers most loyal men that will reach the four main keeps of Dol Amroth in a few days, where the most of Deonvan's men are stationed. The new troupes have instructions to secure their position and prevent any kind of waywardness. Deonvan's captains will be… dealt with… and substituted with men loyal to my father. I have send in secrecy, five of my best outriders to the rangers garrison stationed in Delft, to alert them. They are to spread out and watch the routes for messengers, and raiders if need be. Another fifteen outriders have been send with the fastest horses to every city, with word for the stewards' eyes only; the messages are ciphered and only the stewards know how to decode them. I have counseled them to imprison Deonvan's commanding officers as a measure of safety against any disturbance, until further notice." Lothiriel took a deep breath. "I have done… _everything_ that could be done. I know not what _more_ I can do."

Ivriniel frowned. What her niece was speaking of was very much like preparing for war. Against whom though… Ivriniel had a hunch on that.

"The city stewards you said… do you know if these men can be trusted." Ivriniel immediately asked, keen on the details, knowing how frail these schemes were when one was pulling strings from so far way.

Lothiriel nodded. "I have met them all. I know them all and they are, most of them, loyal to the house of Dol Amroth, and my father. But more importantly, they hate the thought of House Targil ruling over them almost as much as they mislike each other." Her niece met her eye, and the blue of those orbs looked dark and deep. Hooks for the soul…

"Deonvan's troupes are mainly stationed i and G. They are the four biggest cities, port cities. I am certain of the Stewards' loyalty because Lor and G respectively loath Deonvan, but more importantly, they know that any action favoring him would be severely detrimental to their interests. He would have them killed once he gets his power, and they know it."

Ivriniel smiled. The irony was, this was a part of the game that none had ever taught her. Lothiriel had learned this brand of manipulation from Deonvan Targil himself, the political prodigy who never stopped at anything to get what he wanted. If only he had had the sense to make Lothiriel love him, perhaps they might not have been so bad together.

But as enemies… Ivriniel feared the ashes that these two were going to leave behind. She feared the flames of their crash would engulf them all.

"And to what end, all this? What is the point?" because Ivriniel failed to see it besides isolating the enemy troupes, so to speak, so that there could not be any civil unrest caused by Deonvan's troupes on the field.

One look to her niece's eyes and Ivriniel knew – that had been Lothiriel's greatest fear. Her only fear.

"Oh, you _foolish_ girl." Ivriniel murmured. "You and your father are the same, blinded by your self-centered emotions, agonizing over a few hundred dead men when there are _generations_ at stake!"

"Have a care, aunt." Lothiriel countered, lips thinning.

"Heed your own advice, _niece_." Ivriniel snapped back, in the exact same tone. But after a few breaths she realized that she was foolishly not explaining herself at all. "Listen Lothiriel. It will not matter how far you can paralyze his forces on the ground; as long as that man is living, he is a threat. You need a plan to take care of him, permanently."

Lothiriel's eyes blazed and as the sun hit her, she looked cloaked in flame and blood. Pale as she was in that moment the sight her niece made was striking… even though she'd never know how to truly use that beauty.

"Deonvan will be dealt with." She said harshly. But then her look faltered. "I just need time."

"Time for what?" impatience was starting to eat and Ivriniel's composure.

"Time to _know_." Lothiriel insisted stubbornly. "One week, two at most, and they will reach the Black Gate. One week, and if I have ever had any love from the gods, then I shall not be father's only heir. Just one week."

Ivriniel looked at her so young niece, she who was proud and strong and so fair. She who was the child of her heart. And what Ivriniel saw was a young woman who was afraid. She sobered up instantly.

"You you waiting for them to come back alive?" Ivriniel asked, softly speaking as if to a child.

Lothiriel closed her eyes. Ivriniel knew that meant 'no'.

"Then what is it?"

She watched her niece chew her tongue, afraid of her own words.

"I am waiting for certainty." Lothiriel opened her eyes and there was deep understanding in them, and a conviction that did not waver. "I don't want to kill him on a possibility. I want to know for _certain_ when I hear that he is dead, that I did not do it for myself. That I did it because it had to be done." Her eyes turned fierce, the lines of her lovely face sharpened as she tensed. "I will not have him take what is left of my soul. If he must die, it will not be just because I wish it and its more _convenient_."

Ivriniel sighed in defeat. People and their principles. Such tiresome matters…

"Why don't you just send him on a fool's errand somewhere deadly and let fate run its course?" Ivriniel asked, but it was a silly question at this point.

"Oh no, he shall stay right here, where I can watch him. I won't have him anywhere else for now."

It was the wise course to chose, Ivriniel could see that. But it was also reckless – to Lothiriel that is. That man was dangerous to her. Ivriniel could point that out of course – except she already had. And now that Lothiriel had mentioned the march to the Black gates, something else weighted on Ivriniel's mind… something far more sinister.

"Lothiriel… is it true what they say, about the march to the Black Gate? About the One Ring?"

There was trepidation in her aunts voice. Lothiriel sympathized. She had been almost hysteric when she had heard.

"It is." Tears clogged her throat. They would not fall. "The whole march is a ruse really. A distraction."

Eomer's face burst in front of her and Lothiriel bodily flinched so suddenly that she almost spilled her tea. She could not. She would not think about him now.

"Madness…" her aunt whispered.

Not even four days ago, Lothiriel had agreed. But now she felt something else.

"No. Not madness." Her aunt looked at her, sharp grey eyes hard and downturned mouth bitter. "Hope, auntie. _Hope_."

Lothiriel saw the way the word stilled her aunt in mind and body, before Ivriniel went back to her old practical self and huffed as she looked away.

"A fool's hope." She murmured. "If they fail, what then?"

A burst of laughter escaped from Lothiriel's lips. The edge of hysteria was there, in that so senseless reaction.

"Well, if they fail, then darkness will come for us all, and none of this will matter." Lothiriel fixed an unflinching gaze on the woman who had taught her the value of a sharp mind. "But then again, it would have happened regardless if they had not had tried at all."

Ivriniel gave her a bitter smiled as she looked away.

"Hope." She murmured to the setting sun.

Lothiriel did not answer.

 

1 Inspired by a similar expression (a scene really) in Game of Thrones between Tyrion Lannister and Janos Slynt.


End file.
